


Murder, Milkshakes, and Drive-Ins

by PotentiallyLovely



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1950's Americana, Alcohol, BDSM Lite, Consensual Sex, Diners, Execution Mention, F/M, Fake Dating, Halloween, Hermione is in over her head, Hermione's a math major, Murder, Tom Riddle is not a total sociopath, Tom dressed as Bela Lugosi, Tom is kind of a greaser but mostly a nerd, Tom’s a little too comfortable with murder, a lot of hand holding, but also not as dark as it sounds, but with murder, era appropriate misogyny, gas used as capital punishment mentioned, getting away with murder, mostly a sociopath but not completely, not a comedy, touch-starved Tom, unintentional accomplices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotentiallyLovely/pseuds/PotentiallyLovely
Summary: He had been defending her.He was defending himself, a part of her whispered, he’d throw you to the wolves.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 73
Kudos: 309





	1. Things Happen Very Quickly

For someone so intelligent, Hermione could be incredibly reckless.

Rash.

Imprudent.

But she just couldn’t seem to help herself.

When she had heard the unmistakable taunts coming from the wash, a concrete ravine the city used for irrigation, she couldn’t ignore them. How could she keep her head down and keep walking when someone could be in danger? She hadn’t considered what she would do when she got to them, but she had pushed her way through the dry crackling bushes regardless.

And there, at the bottom of the wash, she had seen the imposing figure of Abe Malfoy kicking a much smaller man in the side. Over and over. _Laughing_ while he did it. And without thinking, Hermione had found herself scrambling down the steep slope of the wash.

“Stop it! Stop!” She dropped her books and attached herself to Abe’s elbow, yanking ineffectually at his letterman jacket. Through the haze of adrenaline, she felt a nail snap off as she struggled.

Without warning, she was thrown back and landed hard on her elbows next to her scattered pile of library books. Over her stood Abe, his pale blonde hair was parted neatly to the right, not a strand out of place despite his current activities. Broad shoulders blocked the sun and cast his form in silhouette. He sneered at her prone form _(thank God her skirt hadn’t flown up)_ and he reached down.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and braced for _something_.

But no pain came. She opened her eyes in time to see him holding her copy of _The Canterbury Tales_ for her British Literature class. One corner of his mouth raised in a slow creeping smirk, “So egghead has a girlfriend, huh?” He opened her book with one hand and looked down at the pages as if her were considering reading it.

“How sweet.” _Riiiiiiiip_. He tore out a page. Without thinking, _again_ , she scrambled to her feet and tried to rip the abused book from his meaty hands. And once again, Hermione found herself splayed on the ground. Before she could even attempt to struggle to her feet, he had kicked her in the stomach, and she saw stars. Despite years of bullying, Hermione had never been physically attacked. Her brain short-circuited as she fought to breathe through the pain. Just as she thought she had pushed through it, another swift kick sent her spread on her back and gasping weakly. Straining her eyes against the overcast yet painfully bright sky, she watched as Abe brought his foot back for another kick.

A kick that never came.

Hermione gaped in horror as the smaller man, she had forgotten his existence in her panic, brought a baseball sized stone down on the back of Abe’s skull. Abe fell to his knees, still conscious and now furious. He tried to twist and grab at the other man but was met with a rock to the face. Blood splattered downward in a line across the concrete. Abe fell forward onto one hand and the stranger brought the stone down on the base of his skull once, twice, three more times.

Hermione lay there, unmoving, not sure if she was hallucinating from head trauma. The man, the living one, collapsed on his knees, panting, and still gripping the bloody rock. She saw now that he was handsome, in a slender effeminate manner when compared to Abe’s bulk. The thought didn’t feel as if it were her own. More like an instinctual acknowledgement of symmetry, just evolution doing the talking. Or thinking.

What was she thinking? She was still laying in the dirty wash, dry from the Southern California drought. Hermione rolled onto her hands and knees, her sides screaming at her, and literally crawled to the kneeling man. She had to pass Abe’s corpse, at least she assumed it was a corpse, his hair was a bloody mess and he wasn’t moving. She averted her eyes. When she reached the stranger, his skin was sickly pale, contrasting with his messy black hair, and he was just staring at Abe.

Hermione kneeled in front of him, blocking his view of the body, and began to run her hands up his arms and chest, over his nose, checking for broken bones. She didn’t know why she was doing this. More instinct she supposed. She continued with her fluttering hands, avoiding the murder weapon still in his grasp. “Are you alright?” He didn’t reply. “You might be bleeding internally. We need to go to the hospital.” She glanced over her shoulder at Abe. “We need to call the police.”

“No.” He finally lifted his head to meet her eyes. “We can’t go to the police.”

His words moved sluggishly in one ear and out the other before she processed what he was saying. “Of course we have to call the police!” In spite of what she was saying, she still lowered her voice, “Why on earth wouldn’t we? A man is dead! It was self-defense!” she whisper-yelled, eyes darting between the man and Abe.

He must have dropped the rock because he grabbed her wrists _(had she still been touching him?)_ and gave her a small shake. “I just killed Abe Malfoy. The mayor’s son. His best friend is Cygnus Black, the Sheriff’s son. He is basically the worst person we could have fucked with. Do you understand?”

Maybe it was because she was in shock, but he was making a strange sort of sense. Abe had allegedly taken advantage of a girl once and she had shortly thereafter gone to “live with her aunt” and never came back. Had he murdered her? Probably not. But nobody could touch the Malfoy family.

And they had done a lot more than touch Abe.

“What do we do?” Hermione’s voice felt small and pathetic, but she wasn’t sure how to handle being an accessory to murder.

“We leave him here. We don’t have a way to move the body and the more we handle him, the more evidence we potentially leave.” _Evidence?_ Why was he speaking as if he knew what he was doing? “It’s supposed to rain tonight so that should help destroy the crime scene.”

“Do you read a lot of detective fiction?”

He gave her a withering look with dark, almost black eyes. Hermione blushed in embarrassment and looked away, “I was just wondering.”

The man stood and bent to grab one of Abe’s hands, “Help me move him.” He nodded toward the other hand.

Hermione didn’t budge from her kneeling position, “I thought you said not to move him.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes upward, like she was a dunce for questioning his experience with handling bodies. “If we leave him out in the open like this, someone will find him before we can change clothes and wait for the rain.”

It made about as much sense as the rest of her day, so Hermione pushed herself to her feet and steeled herself for her first time touching a corpse. Wanting to escape as quickly as possible, she grabbed Abe’s remaining hand and turned to her accomplice.

He counted, “One, two, three, pull.”

Sweat trickled down Hermione’s spine. In tandem they tugged and slowly, several hundred pounds of limp muscle shifted. They began dragging him backward toward a large storm drain that connected the two sides of the wash. It was as tall as a grown man and three times the length. They were able to drag Abe face-down into the drain and push him against the rounded side. In theory, nobody would be able to see him unless they climbed down into the wash. And as long as it didn’t rain for too long, it wouldn’t flood enough to move him.

At least she hoped so.

“Do you live nearby?” he asked.

“What?”

Another eye-roll, “I can’t walk across the entire town covered in blood. Do you live nearby?”

Hermione took a moment to look at his clothing and saw that his navy jeans had a dark spatter of blood across the cuffs, presumably from when Abe’s nose had broken. It wasn’t immediately apparent, so they might have been able to reach her house without anybody noticing. “Yeah, I live up the hill that way.” She motioned in the direction that she had originally come from.

“Let’s go then.” He offered his hand.

She took it.

-

Hermione’s parents were still at work when they arrived at her house. Normal for the early afternoon on a Saturday. She worried that nosy neighbors would see her letting a strange man in, but as damaging as that may be for her reputation, it was much less damaging than murder charges. So, she tried to relax. It was a little impossible though, given the circumstances.

The pair made their way upstairs, but once they reached the second floor she hesitated.

“Just take me to the restroom,” he said quietly.

Relieved to have some direction, she led him to a door on the left and he followed her inside the pastel pink room. The colorful sink and tub were very on-trend her mother had assured her. It had always seemed a little garish to Hermione.

Once inside, she closed the door. It wasn’t very appropriate, but she didn’t want anybody walking in on them washing bloody clothing. Thankfully, Hermione was free of bodily fluids, so she’d only need to change and attempt to tame her hair. _Ha,_ she thought, _as if that were possible._

“Do you have a towel?” he asked her.

It took a moment for her to understand his meaning, “Oh, oh! Of course!” She rushed to a cabinet above the toilet, pulled out a fluffy white towel, and handed it to him. He stared at her, waiting. “Oh!” Hermione whipped around to face the door. Her cheeks were hot.

The sound of buckles, zippers, and rustling clothing filled the room and then silence. “You can turn around now.”

He stood hunched over the sink wearing a white tank top with the white towel wrapped around his waist. It was an absolutely ridiculous sight, but she couldn’t help noticing how tall he was, how broad his shoulders were. He was trying to rinse blood off the cuff of his plaid shirt. She hadn’t noticed it earlier. The hot water was turned on and he was attempting to use a bar of soap to scrub at it.

She took a step forward. “Here, give me that.” Wordlessly, he handed the shirt to her. She picked up his jeans laying on the toilet seat. “You need to use cold water, let them soak for a little while before scrubbing with hydrogen peroxide.”

His eyebrows rose, and as Hermione filled the sink with cold water, she saw an emotion besides disdain for the first time in the past hour. He looked impressed. Maybe curious?

“It sounds like you have some experience with blood.”

Hermione choked on a snort, and for the first time in an hour she smiled, staring at him, waiting for the obvious to sink in. She saw the moment that it clicked, and he scowled in disgust. She laughed again. “What? Did you think I make a habit of throwing myself at ruffians?” She scoffed.

He looked at her like she was stupid again, “After that display today, yes, I could believe it.”

She could barely believe it herself. It was hard to accept that this day was real.

“You know,” she looked at him from the corner of her eye as she pulled the hydrogen peroxide out of her medicine cabinet, “I still don’t know your name.”

“It’s Tom Riddle.”

“I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Hermione? As in Shakespeare?”

She gave an uncomfortable shrug, “Afraid so.”

“Well Hermione, I have a proposition.” He rolled his shoulders and she watched lean muscle bunch and stretch with the movement. “Once you’ve finished, I am going to walk home, burn these clothes, and then you and I are going to meet at Molly’s Diner tonight to discuss what needs to be done.”

He was so presumptuous. But Hermione didn’t really see any alternatives to following his instructions. “Okay.”

“Then it’s a date.”


	2. Post-Murder Milkshakes

The girl, Hermione, arrived at Molly’s five minutes before six o’clock. She was early, but Tom had already been waiting in the booth for ten minutes. Her voluminous plaid skirt and modest white blouse were incongruent with her bare face and the riotous curls bursting forth from her high ponytail. Tom wasn’t particularly interested in women’s fashion, but even he knew that some powder to hide her freckles would’ve been expected among the other girls her age. She stood in the doorway for a moment, until she saw him and made her way to their booth.

As soon as she sat across from him, he asked, “How old are you?”

She had already been eyeing him warily, but now her wide eyes met his. “What does that have to do with anything?”

It was difficult not to scoff at her constantly questioning him. It took twice as long to accomplish anything with her. “I need to make sure you’re not a kid.”

Now she scowled and crossed her arms, “I’m not a child.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m twenty-one.” She said after a pause.

That was a surprise. He had thought she might be eighteen, maybe even nineteen. But twenty-one was good. That would work. He leaned forward, smiling. She still just sat there, ramrod straight, and he crooked his finger in an indication to lean forward as well. For once she obeyed on the first try. Their eyes met and he could feel her short nervous breaths puffing against his closed lips. “I need you to smile.”

“Excuse me?” she said a little breathless. He could barely hear her over the jukebox and the raucous groups of teenagers dancing to it.

“I need you to smile,” he said, “pretend we’re enjoying ourselves. And for God’s sake, stop acting like you’re waiting for the cops to show up.” Hermione still looked stressed, but she attempted a girlish giggle. Tom could smell her mint toothpaste and he realized that he’d never voluntarily been this close to another person in his life.

“Excuse me,” one of the older Weasley boys had arrived to take their order, “what can I get you?” Tom sat back and ordered two cheeseburgers for them, with a side of fries to share. Hermione hastily asked for a vanilla milkshake before the lanky man with painfully bright hair left.

Once they were alone again, Tom decided it was time to break the bad news to her.

They resumed their previous position. “You were at the library today, right?” She nodded. “That’s where you had been walking home from?” Again, she nodded. “There’s a good chance that nobody will ever think to ask us any questions, but on the off chance that they do, we’re gonna need to be each other’s alibis.” Tom saw the waiter approaching with their food and stayed silent until he had left again. “If anybody asks, I was walking you home from the library. Your neighbors can confirm they saw me at your house.”

“Well that’s fine and dandy,” she whispered heatedly, “but how am I supposed to explain you walking me home in the first place?” She leaned back, took a bite of her burger, and attempted to look unperturbed.

“Well that’s easy,” he gave her his most disarming smile, the one that sent female professors all aflutter, “we’re going steady.”

She choked on her milkshake, and some spilled onto her bottom lip and chin. While she spluttered and tried to find her napkin, Tom had already leaned across the table with his and began gently wiping away the mess. She just sat there staring like a startled hare, and Tom focused on the cloth gently pulling at her plump bottom lip. Upon closer inspection, he could see that the delicate skin had been broken earlier. “Stop gaping Hermione,” he said, “this is supposed to be romantic.”

She jerked her head back, “Romantic?!” she lowered her voice and tried to give a coy smile. It wasn’t impressive. “There is nothing romantic about this. And we are absolutely _not_ going steady.”

“As of today, we are.” Tom retook his seat and began eating his burger before it could get cold. “If we’re going to vouch for each other, then we’re going to need it to be believable.” Tom held up a fry, “And that means sharing fries, walking you home from the library, even going to Hogsmeade Ridge.”

“We are absolutely not going to Hogsmeade.” Hermione crossed her arms defiantly.

“We don’t need to be caught necking, just holding hands and the like.” Tom scoffed. “And stop telling me what we’re ‘absolutely not’ doing. If you had any better ideas, you wouldn’t be sitting here giggling at me. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“ _I_ don’t know what I’m doing?” she asked vehemently, “And you do? You do this regularly?”

“You need me.” He stated smugly. Which wasn’t entirely true. There wasn’t anything to really tie Hermione to the crime scene, but he was relying on her panicked state to keep her close to him. To make sure she didn’t have a sudden change of conscience.

“I need you like I need a hole in the head.” She said as she rolled her eyes, then stiffened as she realized the implications. Tom couldn’t help it, he laughed. Not for long, but Hermione couldn’t resist giggling as well.

A different Weasley boy appeared at their table. “We don’t need anything.” Tom told him without looking away from Hermione.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not your waiter.” The boy turned his back to Tom and spoke to Hermione. “Hey ‘Mione, are you still going to help me with my Trig tomorrow?” His feet shuffled shyly.

Hermione blanched, “Oh Ron, I uh-“

“She’s busy tomorrow.” Tom said.

Ron barely glanced over his shoulder, “I was asking Hermione.”

Tom didn’t like Ron’s interest in Hermione. Logically, he knew that he didn’t have any claim to the girl. He didn’t know a thing about her. He didn’t even really like her. But they were connected now. They shared a bond he’d never had with another person, a shared secret, a confidence. “Regardless, she’s still busy.”

“Well she isn’t busy all day, is she? You said you’d help me ‘Mione.” Hermione looked torn. She’d obviously forgotten her previous engagement in light of the day’s events.

Tom stepped in again, “She will be busy all day because we’re going to be at the beach. All. Day.”

“Is that true?” Hermione wordlessly nodded. “Why?”

“It’s a date.” Tom told him, “We’re going steady.”

Ron finally faced Tom, “That’s ridiculous!” His head swiveled between the two seated figures, “You haven’t gone on any dates and Hermione’s not wearing your pin.”

Hermione finally seemed to find her voice, “It’s true Ron. We’ve been meeting at the library. That’s why you haven’t seen us here.” Ron’s face grew progressively more flushed as she spoke.

“If you hadn’t interrupted us Weasley,” Tom grinned maliciously, “I was about to give Hermione my ring.” He had been planning no such thing. But satisfaction curled in his gut when he saw the shock on both of their faces. Ron looked like he might blow a gasket.

“Maybe I could help you on Monday Ron. My last class ends at two.”

“Maybe.” With one last dirty look at Tom, Ron made his way into the kitchen.

Finally alone, Hermione turned on Tom, “Now what am I supposed to do on Monday when he sees that I don’t have a ring?”

“You do have a ring.” At her confused expression, Tom pulled a chain out from under his shirt and over his head. He unclasped the latch and slid the onyx ring off of the chain, then held out his hand.

“What are you doing Tom?”

“Just give me your hand.”

Hesitantly, Hermione placed her left hand in his. Tom slid the band onto her ring finger. It hung loose and Tom realized how petite her hand was, with short fingers contrasting his long and slender digits. “You’ll need to wrap it with string to make it fit.”

“This isn’t a class ring Tom.”

“Well it’s the only one I’ve got.” Tom snapped, irritated.

Her mouth fell open and she tried to backtrack, “Oh no no, it’s lovely Tom. I just- I’m so confused.” Her eyes began to glisten, and warning sirens blared through Tom’s head. “A terrible thing happened today,” she whispered, as if they were separate from it, “and now suddenly I’m wearing a strange boy’s ring and spending my day at the beach with him. How am I going to explain these things to my father?”

“Don’t worry Hermione,” her hand still rested in his and he clasped it with his other, “we’ll get through this together.” He wasn’t sure if he meant that, didn’t know if he wouldn’t sell her out to save his skin. But for right now, he needed her calm and compliant.

She bit her lower lip and stared at their joined hands, trying to keep her tears from escaping. Abruptly, her mouth fell open and her eyes snapped to his. “ _Tom,_ ” she hissed, “my books!”

“You carried them home, remember?” In spite of this, alarm infused his nerves and he stiffened.

“The pages he ripped from my book Tom, they’re still in the wash!” She attempted to whisper, but her pitch was slowly rising in her agitation. “The book’s from the library, the pages could be tied back to me.”

_Shit_

“We need to go get them Tom!”

“Okay, okay, just calm down for a second. Let me think.”

“It’s already dark. If anyone asks, you’re just walking me home. We’ll grab the pages and then you can meet my parents. To solidify this charade, I mean.”

She was right. On all accounts. They couldn’t leave the evidence and if he wanted to keep up appearances, he’d have to meet her parents regardless.

“Then let’s go.”

-

It had rained while Tom and Hermione had been in their respective homes preparing for their “date”. In the hours since, the puddles had disappeared, and the wash was almost entirely dry thanks to the southern California heat. Despite the onset of evening, it was still pleasant enough outside that Tom didn’t feel the need to wear his jacket. They had been walking for only a couple of minutes before Tom tried to take her hand.

Hermione yanked her hand away before he could get a proper grip, “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Holding your hand.”

“Well don’t.”

“We don’t really have a choice,” Tom said, “if we want people to believe that you’re my girl, we’re going to need to touch each other.”

She glanced around, “There’s nobody to see us anyway.”

“That’s not true, anybody could drive by or look out their window.” He argued.

“I- I’ve never-“ Hermione looked away, blushing.

_Neither have I,_ he thought, but what he actually said was, “I’m not propositioning you, just do it.” Despite the aggressive tone, he offered his elbow instead of his hand. After a moment’s hesitation she took it.

They walked in silence for the next twenty minutes. Tom’s attention was torn between the feel of Hermione’s hand on his forearm and the feeling of being watched. _But hadn’t that been the purpose of this?_ Anybody watching would just see a couple of college kids walking down the street. Nothing suspicious.

Hermione kept her eyes determinedly fixed ahead and Tom had the opportunity to openly observe her. She was by no means a short girl, but even so, she only reached his chin. Her unruly hair added some height. Her arms were soft and rounded, with more freckles spilling out from under the sleeve of her blouse. He realized she had forgotten a sweater.

When they arrived at the wash it was nearly pitch black. There were no streetlights on this road to give them away. Tom took a step toward the bushes, expecting Hermione to follow. But she remained in place, her arm slipping out of his. “What are you doing?” His voice was eerily loud in the darkness.

“I can’t go down there Tom.” She shook her head, “I’ll be the look out.”

“Look out?” Tom scoffed at her, “This isn’t a bank heist. Get over here.” He held out his hand, but she didn’t budge. “I can’t leave you standing alone in the dark. At best it’s ungentlemanly, at worst it’s suspicious.”

“I didn’t take you for a gentleman.” Her eyes were defiant. At least, he thought they were. Hard to tell in the dark.

“I have manners, I’m not an animal.” The look she gave him said otherwise, but she seemed to come to terms with her predicament and joined him. They made their way down the sharp slope, without touching. Hermione wouldn’t allow him to help her.

Moonlight illuminated puddles on the concrete and the sheen of the metal drainage pipe they had left Abe in. In silent understanding, Hermione stayed where she was while Tom went to collect the torn pages. The inside of the pipe was dark, and Tom had to feel along the body to find Abe’s hands. The heat and exposure during the past seven hours had apparently sped along the decomposition process. Everything felt intact, but he could detect a faint sickly-sweet smell, like rotting fruit. Abe’s hand was cool to the touch but not cold, a lack of homeostasis had allowed it to reach ambient temperature. The first hand was empty, so Tom had to step across Abe and find the other.

_Thank God_

The other hand was still clenched in a fist and Tom could feel the edges of crumpled paper at the side of the palm. He tried to just slip the pages out, but they refused to cooperate. Tom tried to uncurl Abe’s hand, but it was stiff and unyielding. He didn’t want to tear the pages and leave little scraps that would be impossible to find in the dark.

“Hurry up,” Hermione had appeared at the entrance of the tunnel, “it’s raining again Tom, the wash could flood.” In his focus, he hadn’t noticed he had been kneeling in water for several minutes.

In spite of this, he slowly, meticulously, worked the edges of the paper side to side until they popped free. Triumphant, he returned to Hermione and they scrambled up the side of the wash as it continued to fill. Tom wanted to run home and get out of the rain, but he needed to see this farce through to the end. They began walking briskly without speaking and when Tom glanced at her, he recalled that she didn’t have a sweater. Even in the dark, he could see that her white blouse had been soaked through and her white cotton bra stood out in stark contrast.

“Shit.”

“Wha-“ She stopped.

Tom shoved his jacket at her, “Put this on.”

Hermione looked at him with furrowed brows, confused. Tom flicked his eyes downward, pointedly. She looked down and gasped, hurriedly snatching his jacket from his hands and shrugging it on. “Pervert.”

“I gave you my jacket!” She ignored him and began powerwalking again. He stayed slightly behind her, not in the mood for her attitude. He told himself that this worked in his favor, that her parents would think him considerate for giving her his jacket.

They wouldn’t appreciate the way Tom’s mind kept straying to the gentle curves he had witnessed, and he was glad that the leather jacket hid them from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a crematory operator and a mortician's apprentice for a while. So I've got a pretty intimate understanding of what dead bodies look, smell, and feel like. Unfortunately (is it though?), due to the small timeline between the the murder and returning to the scene of the crime, there wasn't much to describe in gory detail.
> 
> And I hope it's obvious, but this Hermione does not look like Emma Watson. This Hermione is at least a size 8 and her hair is a force unto itself.


	3. Adrenaline and Mortification

Her parents had loved him. Of course.

_“Oh, how thoughtful.”_

_“Hermione, why didn’t you bring a coat?”_

_“Let me drive you home Tom.”_

She had lain awake most of the night, unable to sleep as the events of the day replayed in her head on a loop. So much had changed so quickly. She hadn’t had a chance to be alone and just think about her actions and the potential repercussions.

She seriously considered betraying Tom.

But everything he’d said was true. Abe was from a powerful family with powerful connections. And Hermione was a bushy haired bluestocking without the protection of a husband and unconventional parents. Her mother worked alongside her father as an equal and, it was whispered, they even used _contraceptives_. Her father actively opposed the Malfoy family’s political influence in their town and spoke out about it at public forums.

She was grateful that she hadn’t seen Abe’s face after Tom had killed him. His limp body and bright white hair matted with black blood would probably haunt her for eternity. But she wouldn’t have to look into his dead eyes every time she closed hers for the rest of her life. She hadn’t touched him besides initially moving him either. Tom had felt around the corpse and retrieved the incriminating evidence for her.

Hermione hadn’t actually done anything. She was just a witness. But if it came out that she had been involved, it was nearly guaranteed that she would serve prison time as an accessory.

What really made her hesitate to contact the authorities was Tom. He could be executed for this. California had ended hangings nearly twenty years ago and executions were now carried out in gas chambers. It somehow seemed more sinister. Hermione imagined him strapped to a chair, choking as pipes hissed. It made her sick just to consider. She wasn’t his real girlfriend, and had no genuine attachment to him, but she still didn’t want him dead. He had been defending her. _He was defending himself,_ a part of her whispered, _he’d throw you to the wolves._

Ultimately, Hermione had decided she’d continue with this dating plan for as long as it was useful. It gave them both an alibi for the time of the murder and allowed her to keep an eye on him. Even so, she was not looking forward to their second date.

-

“I am not getting on _that_.” Hermione could not believe Tom thought he could pick her up on a _motorcycle_ of all things. It was black. That was about the best she could describe it. Black with chrome, a long seat, and no windshield. “Don’t you have a car?”

He glowered, “Seeing as a car would cost ten times as much, no, I don’t have one.”

“B-but there’s only one helmet! And I’m wearing a dress.” Worse, it was technically just a wrap over her bathing suit.

“Nobody will see anything.” He scoffed, but then paused, “If it really bothers you, you can wear the helmet. Just get on.” It was so strange, somehow everything he said simultaneously made her want to argue and give in. Not just with the motorcycle, but with all of their arguments. Her nature rebelled, but his self-assured manner just took the fight out of her. Like swimming against the tide. She gave in. Again.

Avoiding eye contact, she nodded. Hermione held her hand out, waiting for the helmet to be placed in it. Instead, Tom step forward and placed the bowl-shaped device on her head. She was thankful that she had braided her hair; it may not have fit otherwise. He surprised her again when, instead of stepping back, he leaned down to buckle the leather strap beneath her chin. He didn’t come eye-to-eye with her, it was only a slight bend, but it still brought him close enough that she was able to smell whatever he used in his hair. She assumed it was some sort of pomade. The sides were combed back but his curls, looser than hers, fell onto his forehead. He smelled like leather and beeswax. Like honey.

Hermione thought he was trying to buckle the strap without touching her. It was taking an awfully long time to do something so simple. When he finally finished, he took a step back to look at her and a wide Cheshire cat smile split his face. She had only known him a day. She couldn’t claim to really know him at all, but it seemed to her that smiling wasn’t something he did often.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Nothin’. You just look-” his smile fell, “you look like a kid. Let’s get going.” He turned his back to her and gripping the handlebars, swung a leg over to straddle the bike. “Come on.”

“How do I get on?” Hermione readjusted the straps of her backpack, unsure.

“Put your left foot here,” Tom pointed down at a stirrup of some sort, “and then swing your other leg over like you’re getting on a horse.” Hermione had never ridden a horse, but she felt like that may not have been the right moment to tell him. She placed her foot on the protruding metal bar, then tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. As she brought her right foot off the ground, she felt the bike sway under her and jumped back to the safety of solid earth. “It won’t tip. Try it again.” She did, and he was right. As she swung her leg over, it swayed again, but his legs were braced on either side and it didn’t tip.

Once she was seated, Hermione realized that the slope of the seat made it difficult to put any distance between them. She tried to shift back as far as she could and grip the edges of the seat with both hands.

Tom looked at her from over his shoulder, “What are you doing?”

“Holding on?”

“Not like that you’re not. You’ll fly off the first time we hit a bump. Here,” He grabbed one of Hermione’s hands and pulled forward until it rested on his stomach, “clasp your hands in front of me.” She leaned her torso toward him and did as he said. He was facing forward again but his head tilted back slightly, and Hermione imagined him rolling his eyes at her. “I’m sorry that this is so difficult, but you’re going to need to move your hips up too. Grip my hips with your thighs.”

Hermione’s face was flushed and hot. She took comfort in the fact that his thick jeans and leather jacket would prevent any skin-to-skin contact. Still, his jeans were rough against her bare inner thighs and the sensation made her gut twist. The engine roared to life and the vibrations reverberating through her anatomy made her heart clench in both terror and exhilaration. They took off.

-

Hermione had spent most of the ride praying to whomever would listen that they wouldn’t die. What was the point of avoiding execution if you turn around and crack your skull open on the road? It had been twenty torturous minutes of bare thighs chafing against lean hips and her hands desperately gripping each other in an attempt to avoid gripping him. The scenery was probably lovely, but she wouldn’t know because her face had been buried between his shoulder blades the whole time.

Once they had stopped, Tom held the bike steady while Hermione hopped off. There wasn’t an area to park, so they pushed the bike behind some brush a little ways off the road and made their way to the concrete steps leading down the marine terrace. Scattered dry brush and rocks littered the hillside. They reached the berm and saw that there were only a few other patrons dispersed across the sand. Once they settled on a spot, Hermione began unpacking her backpack. She laid out two towels for them. (Hermione had assumed Tom wouldn’t bring one and she’d been right.) Next, she untied her wrap and put it inside her backpack along with the rest of her supplies.

Hermione sat, momentarily unsure of what to do with herself. Tom had removed his jacket and shirt while she had been preparing everything. He began to unbutton his jeans and Hermione decided it was time to occupy herself. She pulled a book out of her bag and flipped onto her stomach to read. She sensed, rather than saw, Tom sit down beside her.

At some point, Hermione realized that she wasn’t reading anymore. She had been staring blankly at the open page, unseeing. She could feel the warmth of the sun suffusing her thighs and shoulders with a rosy heat. Tom’s nakedness was a palpable presence radiating at the edge of her senses. Despite her growing sense of awkwardness, it was ultimately Tom that broke the silence.

“What are you reading?”

Hermione glanced down at the last line she had read, _“It's terrible, once you've got a man into your blood!"._ She hesitated. Tom’s hand appeared from her peripheral and snatched the book from her grasp. Laying on her stomach, she wasn’t able to launch herself at Tom to try and retrieve it. Which, once she took a moment to think, was probably for the best. She didn’t think the other beachgoers would approve of them wrestling half-naked in full view.

So, instead, she sat up and kneeled next to Tom to supervise. She saw that he had placed his finger between the pages to save her place and was examining the cover. It was a worn brown linen hardcover with a black bird stamped on the front. The spine read, “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” in black text.

He began to flip through it while continuing to hold her place, “How did you get this? It’s banned isn’t it?”

She wasn’t entirely sure how her father had procured it, “I don’t believe in censorship.”

Tom huffed and shook his head as he skimmed a page, “I see the word ‘fuck’ four times just on this page.” Hermione felt her face flush in embarrassment and Tom grinned at her like the devil he was.

“I hadn’t read that far yet,” she said. Tom’s brow furrowed and he appeared to begin reading rather than skimming. Hermione leaned forward in an attempt to see what had caught his attention. “What is it?”

“You like a good, sharp, piercing cold-hearted fucking…” he said. The word _‘fuck’_ struck her in the chest. Hermione froze and suddenly her kneeling position felt too close, too provocative. Funny how she had never felt a self-consciousness like this until she met Tom. “… and then pretending it’s all sugar. Where’s your tenderness for me?” he didn’t look at her, but somehow it felt that he was speaking to her specifically. “You’re as suspicious of me as a cat is of a dog.” The rough pile of the towel bit into her knees and she was abruptly aware of an aching emptiness between her slightly spread thighs.

She stole her book back and stuffed it into her backpack, “I think I’m done reading.” Hermione plopped herself down onto her butt and dug her toes into the sand. They both sat, legs stretched out, and stared ahead at the waves. She wasn’t sure what they were going to do there all day. It wasn’t like they had come with a group of friends to chat or play volleyball with. Tom seemed to be having similar thoughts.

“Do you want to go in the water?” he asked.

“Not really, no.”

“Why not? It shouldn’t be too cold yet. Summer’s just ended.”

“The water’s always cold here. And I can’t swim anyway.”

Tom twisted to look at her and Hermione observed the pale expanse of his chest for the first time. She’d been purposefully ignoring it until now. His shoulders were broad but not very muscular and her skin was a warm bronze compared to his pallor. “You can’t swim? But you live on a coast?” He extended his hand toward the water.

“I just never learned.” Hermione hugged her knees to her chest, “I’m not very… outdoorsy.”

Tom stood and offered his hand, “I’ll teach you.” He pulled Hermione to her feet and didn’t let go as they made their way to the waterline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes about the characterization in this fic.
> 
> My favorite head-canon is black Hermione, and I never see it in Tomione fics. I originally wanted her to be black or biracial in this story. But because of the geographic setting and time period this story is set in, it would have added another layer to the story that I, as a white woman, didn't feel I had the insight or authority to address without screwing it up. So in this fic, I am describing and imagining Hermione as an ethnically ambiguous character (tan skin, big hair, etc.) but you can imagine her however you'd like.
> 
> As for Tom's behavior. I'm afraid that people will think that he's too OOC. In the books, Tom would have had followers and been on his way to being Voldemort by this point. But he was only able to do that because of his magical prowess. I also think JK Rowling's assertion that he was born a sociopath because he was conceived through a love potion (rape) is super fucked up.   
> So without magic and being born evil, what we have is an orphan that is intelligent, power hungry, and charismatic. But he can't use magic/force to gather or intimidate followers. This is also set during a period where anti-intellectualism was rampant and his peers would not have respected it. He's selfish and maybe a bit of a bully, but not a total sadist. He's experiencing physical/emotional intimacy for the first time and discovering that he doesn't hate it, at least not with Hermione.


	4. A Lot of Sexual Tension

“Let’s work on floating first.” Tom said. “This would be easier if we were in a pool. We’ll have to go further out to avoid the waves.”

“But I won’t be able to touch the bottom.” Tom glanced down and saw that the waves at his waist were already brushing the underside of her breasts. No longer holding his hand, she clung to his arm, using him as an anchor as waves rolled through and lifted them gently. Tom was surprised that the constant contact over the past day hadn’t really bothered him. Once he thought about it, he realized that he had never actively avoided physical contact. It was just something that had never been offered to him.

“Here,” he bent over, “put your arms around my neck.” And just like with the motorcycle and everything else, she hesitated. He had never needed to be accommodating before, yet here he was, handing over jackets, helmets, and swimming lessons. Somehow it didn’t feel like much of a burden. Hermione clutched her hands behind his neck and Tom reached below the water to grip her thighs. He hoisted them around his waist so that she clung to him like a spider monkey and enough of her was still in the water that he wasn’t carrying her full weight. Hermione rested her chin on his shoulder. Stray curls tickled his neck. The pose was intimate, but he assumed she was hiding her mortification rather than cozying up to him.

“I thought you were going to carry me like a bride,” her chin bounced against his shoulder, “not like… this.” Tom could practically hear her frown in displeasure. He chose to ignore her.

By the time the water was nearly at his shoulders, the waves had effectively disappeared, and the ocean rose and fell in soft increments. “This should be fine. I’m going to lay you on your back.” Tom placed one hand at the back of her neck and the other at the base of her spine. She released her grip on him and allowed him to lower her almost like an infant. He left his hands beneath her. Hermione lay rigid and motionless, staring upward at the sky. He noticed she did that a lot, avoided eye contact as if she were mentally fortifying herself all the time. At that moment, she was literally bracing herself against the water. “You need to relax.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ve noticed.” He muttered. “Just take a deep breath and let your body… go soft.” He couldn’t think of a better way to describe the limpness needed for floating. He hadn’t been taught to swim by another person, just figured it out during trips with the children’s home. “You need to be loose but not completely limp. Allow your limbs to move.” Hermione took a deep breath, the motion pushing her breasts outward to strain against her swimsuit bodice, and she relaxed.

It produced the opposite effect in Tom. He had been pointedly _not_ thinking about the fact that she was basically in her underclothes. Now he was stiff with discomfort. He could feel some sort of boning running along the length of her back, holding everything in place without the assistance of straps. Which made him further aware of his fingers skimming the base of the boning and the top of her backside. He’d never seen a woman’s bare shoulders or thighs. At least, not outside of his coworkers’ new _Playboy._ And he hadn’t intentionally looked. Now, he had Hermione’s breasts essentially on display just beneath his chin. _I’d only need to tilt my head and-_

That was-

Disturbing.

Hermione had closed her eyes and was gently swaying her arms and legs. It seemed like a good time to stop touching her. Tom retracted his hands and watched as she continued to float, oblivious to both his unsettling thoughts and his lack of support.

“Tom, how long do I-“ Hermione’s eyes opened and when she saw that he was now several feet away, she immediately flailed, and sank. Tom grabbed her under the armpits and held her at arm’s length. Spirals had come loose from her braid and now clung to her freckled cheeks. She wasn’t exactly a Monroe, but there was something endearing and pathetic about her. Like a wet puppy. He had experienced a similar feeling when she was wearing his ridiculous helmet.

“Let’s work on treading water.”

-

That night, as Tom lay in the dark, he couldn’t escape thoughts of Hermione. He’d killed a man the day before and hadn’t had trouble sleeping after. He’d like to believe it was exhaustion that had allowed him to pass out after something that should have been traumatic. And maybe part of it had been. But he suspected that a sizable part of him just didn’t really _care._ Abe was an asshole. He’d harassed Tom for years. He had attacked Tom and a girl half his size. Any anxiety Tom was experiencing was entirely centered around fear of discovery.

Instead of worrying about Abe, Tom was busy remembering the soft give of Hermione’s thighs in his grip. Or how her dark orange swimsuit had matched her freckles and reminded him of autumn.

That was probably the most embarrassing thought he’d ever had.

They didn’t plan on meeting during the week unless it was necessary. For now, they had decided to attend a drive-in on Saturday. After another tense motorcycle ride, Hermione had informed him that she would be driving them in her car from now on. Which had led to another short-lived argument because Tom didn’t have a license for a car and didn’t want to be seen with Hermione doing all the driving.

Talk of the drive-in had then led to thoughts on what they would be doing at the drive-in. Presumably, they’d just sit in silence for a couple hours and then go their separate ways. But the idea of what other people their age did at drive-ins had taken hold. Soon, a slideshow of real and imagined images were flipping through Tom’s brain.

_Click._

_Hermione’s blouse, transparent in the rain._

_Click._

_Her bare knees gripping his hips on the bike ride._

_Click._

_The slope of her back and ass as she lay in the sun._

_Click._

_Her breasts at risk of exposure in the ocean._

_Click._

_Hermione laying in the back of a car, deliberately pulling her skirt up to expose her garters._

This was going to be a problem.

-

On Tuesday, Tom had just finished his shift at the pawn shop and as soon as he stepped outside, he was set upon by a manic cloud of hair.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, bewildered.

Hermione had grabbed his sleeve, but now let go. “I thought, that since you were so bothered by it,” she looked back at her Packard 300, “I could teach you to drive and you could take the test this week.” Her brow furrowed, “I realize the timeline’s a bit short, but you already know the traffic laws and whatnot.”

“I already know how to drive. I work at an auto shop.”

“You do? And they let you drive the cars without a license? I suppose it’s a good thing I wasn’t given their address, just to show up in the wrong place. Why don’t you have a license then?” She looked up at him with wide expectant eyes.

Tom blinked. That was the most he had heard her speak since they had met four days ago. There was a nervous energy about her. “Has something happened?” He gave her a pointed look.

“No, nothing like that.” Her voice was breathy with anxiety, “I can just go then. I’ll see you Sat-“ Tom grabbed her hand. He kept doing that. It was a totally involuntary action, like their hands were magnets with opposing poles.

“Since you’re already here,” he said, “I could practice some.”

“Okay.” She passed him her keys from her other hand. Tom released her.

Hermione’s car was a glossy black and had a hard top. It reminded him of his Harley. Only after he had slid into the driver’s seat did he realized that he probably should have opened her door. Hermione hadn’t bothered waiting and was already pulling her skirt out of the doorway. He took a moment to observe her and saw that she was wearing some sort of white dress with large sunflowers embroidered along the bust and waistline. A narrow yellow belt emphasized her midriff.

Their eyes met. She had caught him staring. “Aren’t you not supposed to be wearing white or something?”

“It’s _cream_ ,” she insisted, “and it’s over 80 degrees out. I don’t want to die of heatstroke because of silly country club rules.”

She was right. Even with the windows down, the car was sweltering. But now that she had mentioned it, he realized that the dress wasn’t exactly school appropriate. “Did you wear that to class today?” he asked.

“No.” She looked away as he began rolling up his flannel sleeves. It had been foggy and cool that morning, he hadn’t expected it to get so hot.

“Got dressed up just for me?” he teased and started the car.

“No,” She scoffed but refused to look back at him.

Tom pulled out of the strip mall parking lot and headed toward some of the dusty russet hills that surrounded their town. The further they went, the more sparsely populated it became, with only an occasional small farmhouse along the dirt road.

After several peaceful minutes, Hermione shrieked, “Was that a peacock?!”

Tom jerked the wheel to the right, nearly sending them off the road into a field, before he corrected himself and glanced at the girl that had just about killed them. “It probably was,” he saw that she had braced her hands on the windowsill and was leaning her top half out of the car like a dog. His previous comparison to a wet puppy came to mind. “The farmers around here keep them for pest control and sell the excess to the Malfoys.”

Hermione returned to her seat and frowned, “The excess birds?”

“Yes.”

“Why would the Malfoys want peacocks?”

“To use as living décor on their estate. You didn’t know that?”

“No.”

“Hm, I thought their pretension was common knowledge.”

The ride was a little rough and Tom couldn’t blame it all on the dirt road. He really did know how to drive a car. _In theory._ He was able to move the cars from point A to point B at the auto shop, but he’d never had to shift to higher gears on the open road. This practice drive had admittedly been a good idea on Hermione’s part.

“Y’know, Abe was reported missing,” she spoke in low tones despite their isolation, “it was on the news.” Tom didn’t say anything. “I heard people talking about it in class today too. His dad seems really worried, but most of the other students think he’s just recovering from a weekend long bender somewhere.”

“Well, if we’re lucky, the cops will have the same idea.” Tom kept his eyes on the road.

“They’ll find him eventually Tom,” her voice was tight with anxiety, “it’s not like we dumped his body in the ocean or something! They could’ve found him just since I left class.”

Tom yanked the wheel to the right and pulled off onto the side of the road. Once they were parked, he turned to look at her. He hadn’t realized that Hermione had begun crying at some point. She was holding it together, no hysterical sobbing, but her nose was red, and her freckled cheeks were wet.

“Hey,” Tom reached across the open seat to take both of her hands in his and pull her toward him. She remained in her seat, but they were bent over, nose to nose, just like the diner. “The longer it takes them to find his body, the harder it will be to tie it to us. They won’t be able to establish a time of death. People will have a harder time remembering if they saw us that day. And nobody has come forward with information yet. We’ll be fine.” He released one of her hands and used his palm to rub the tears off her face. He wasn’t entirely gentle, and her skin dragged along with his hand, creating soft streaks of black. “And you don’t need to feel bad. You didn’t do anything.”

“That’s part of the problem Tom,” this close to her face, he saw that she was wearing mascara, and he wondered if it was for him. If the dress was too. A very confusing part of him was pleased by the idea. “I don’t really feel bad. He was being violent and cruel, and I don’t feel bad. I’ve just been an absolute wreck because I don’t want us to get caught.” He was surprised that her feelings mirrored his own so closely.

Tom had taken both of her hands again and glancing down, saw that she was wearing his ring. That did please him. And he knew it was stupid, _she’s just playing along,_ he told himself. Then he noticed her bare elbows bruised and covered in scabs from her attack. He frowned, “Have you heard of the prisoner’s dilemma Hermione?”

“Yes.”

Tom couldn’t suppress his broad smile. He didn’t want to make hasty presumptions, but he believed he may have finally met an equal. Or at the very least, someone that did the supplementary reading for class. “So you know what we need to do. They won’t find any evidence that we were there. If we betray each other, we’ll both be sentenced. It’s in our best interests to stay silent and united.”

“I promise not to sell you out.” She gripped him more tightly, “I know you probably weren’t thinking about me at the time, but you did save me. I don’t think he was going to kill me, but I’m glad you didn’t leave me alone to find out.”

She was right. In the moment, he had been filled with selfish rage against Abe. He had taken the opportunity out of fear and adrenaline, not in her defense. But now, after getting to know her at least a little, he was glad she hadn’t been abused further. “It’s a bit harder for me to turn on you,” he laughed a little morbidly, “since you didn’t technically do anything. But I promise not to do it.” And he meant it. At least, in the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not consciously planned for the tone to get so sexy, so quickly. Or maybe it's not that surprising since Tom's an isolated 22 year old virgin. I feel like the fairly modest society at the time would really ramp up the sexual tension in every interaction. I can pretty much guarantee the rating will get bumped up to E.
> 
> This story is set in 1953 which was the year the hard helmet and Playboy were both invented. My two favorite Marilyn Monroe films were also released that year and one of them will be playing at the drive-in.
> 
> P.S. I have an embarrassing question. What is the etiquette regarding replying to comments? I remember the olden days when authors would reply to individual messages in the notes section at the end of a fic on FF.net. I'm new-ish to AO3 and writing fics myself so idk. I'm probably going to start replying to you all individually because your comments are so kind and encouraging.


	5. Hermione is Perpetually Confused

“You’re still using degrees; you need to use radians now.”

“Why does it matter?” Ron huffed as he erased his work.

“Because,” Hermione tried to gather her patience, “it allows you to work with pi more naturally. Instead of pi over one-eighty, you get one radian.” She glanced across to Harry’s work, he was only one problem ahead of Ron, but everything looked correct. Ron grumbled discontentedly but restarted the problem without further complaint. Hermione was assisting both of the boys with their trigonometry in the breakfast nook of her kitchen.

“Hey Hermione.” Harry put down his pencil, “You’ll get an official invite anyway, but I wanted to tell you myself that Ginny and I are engaged.” He smiled shyly, and the brightness of his teeth contrasted with his russet skin.

Harry’s father was a wealthy Indian man that had moved to their town thirty years ago and married a local girl, Lily Evans. It had been quite the scandal at the time, but they’d managed to skirt the anti-miscegenation laws because:

One, James Potter was outrageously wealthy and two, his “exotic” background allowed for certain liberties.

Luckily for Harry, interracial marriage had been legalized just five years prior; so there was nothing keeping him from his sweetheart, Ginny.

“That’s amazing Harry!” Hermione burst with enthusiasm. She had always operated on the outskirts of Harry’s clique, being too assertive and academically inclined for the friendly, adventurous group. Despite this, Harry had always tried to include her and had invited her on their escapades. She rarely attended. “Do you have a date set?”

“December twenty-first. Just before Christmas. We’re having it at my parent’s house.”

_Mansion_ she thought to herself. But what she said was, “So soon? That’s only three months away.” That was bound to start rumors regarding Ginny’s condition.

“We’re just really excited.” His enthusiasm charmed her, and she couldn’t help grinning back.

“Hey ‘Mione.” She glanced at Ron’s work and saw that he had corrected his error, “D’you want to be my date for the wedding?” Ron asked, both dead serious and seemingly oblivious.

“As romantic as your sporadic proposal was,” Hermione held up her left hand, displaying Tom’s ring, “I’ll be going with Tom.”

“Tom Riddle?” Harry asked in surprise and Hermione was momentarily reminded that the rest of the world was still unaware of how dramatically her life had shifted.

“Yes.” _Speak of the devil._ “Tom Riddle.” A crisp voice spoke from behind her.

Hermione twisted in her chair to see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Tom’s hands were stuffed in his front pockets and his shoulders were rolled forward slightly. She got the impression that he may have been trying to appear less menacing than she knew him to be. And for a moment, Hermione saw what others must have. Lanky, pale, even effeminate features, his leather jacket the only hint at more dangerous pursuits. It was easy to see why Abe had thought of him as an easy target.

“Hey babe,” he nodded to her but didn’t step forward, “are you almost done?” He didn’t acknowledge her companions.

Anxiety crept through Hermione. Had someone found the body? She hadn’t seen him since their drive on Tuesday and it was now Friday. Their fictitious date was tomorrow night. “Yeah Tom, we were just finishing up.”

She said her goodbyes to Ron and Harry and after collecting their supplies, the boys made to leave. Tom had not moved and as they passed, Harry gave a polite nod. Ron ignored him, but called, “See you next week ‘Mione!” over his shoulder. The _click_ of the front door resounded through the empty foyer.

“That won’t be happening.”

Without looking back, Hermione crossed the foyer into the living room. The sun had begun to set, casting everything in a hazy golden glow, dust motes flashing as they floated through the shaft of light. She perched on one corner of the couch, expecting Tom to take the other end. Instead, he approached the window across from her.

“No television?”

“We still use the radio for the news.” She paused, “What do you mean _that_ won’t be happening?”

Tom leaned his back against the wall next to the window and crossed his arms, “You can’t tutor that dunce anymore.” Hermione didn’t need him to clarify as to which boy he was referring to.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It isn’t really. You’re _my_ girl now and I can’t let you fraternize with other men. Especially one so blatantly fixated on you.”

Hermione slowly inhaled while counting to three. Until this point she had let Tom call the shots because things had happened so quickly, and he had taken charge. But she wasn’t about to let him start managing every aspect of her life. “No.”

“No?”

“No. You cannot tell me whom I will or won’t associate with.”

Tom studied her with an upturned nose. The left half of his face and body were gilded in light and Hermione was struck by how classically beautiful he was. A modern Byron. She wanted to peel off the leather jacket for ruining the effect. After a long silence, he conceded, “Fine. But only if that Harry kid is there too.”

“Deal.”

With Tom seemingly satisfied, they sat in a more comfortable silence for a moment. He shoved himself away from the wall, “I nearly forgot why I came here.” Tom crossed the few feet to stand in front of Hermione and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes in the new position. He pulled a small piece of cardstock out of his back pocket and presented it to her, “I got my license today.”

“Oh Tom that’s wonderful!” Hermione jolted upward and gripped each of Tom’s hands in hers, “I’m so excited for you!” She was now wedged between his lanky body and the couch and breathed in his distinct scent of leather and beeswax. His face remained largely impassive, but a small quirk to his lips betrayed his pleasure at her enthusiasm.

“It means I can drive you to the movies tomorrow.” _Ah yes, that._ “You could wear that yellow dress again.” He said with an uncharacteristic wink.

Hermione blushed and looked away. It had been a stupid impulse and she couldn’t believe she had gone through with it. The majority of her wardrobe was composed of plain blouses and calf-length skirts in neutral tones. Everything was new and technically in style, but she avoided the bright colors and daring cuts that some of her female peers preferred. She remembered the not-so-covert whispers that had occurred at prom when she had shown up in a garish aquamarine dress, still sporting braces and a wild bob.

“That would be pretty impractical Tom,” she said, “it’ll be too cool in the evening.” With her eyes still cast downward, Hermione stared at their clasped hands and his ring engulfing her finger. Her hands were at least two shades darker than his thin porcelain digits. She untangled her fingers from his but was still unable to step back. Tom gently gripped her chin and she allowed him to lift it slightly, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. His touch didn’t excite her per se, but it felt unexpectedly warm and familiar, despite their brief acquaintance. His thumb brushed against her bottom lip and Hermione was thrust back into reality. She didn’t understand why he continued to touch her in private, when there was nobody to witness their fake relationship. “I think you should go Tom. My parents will be home soon.”

Tom’s hand disappeared and he took a step back to allow Hermione space to move. Nevertheless, their hands grazed one another as she slid past. She led him to the front door, and he left without further incident. She refused to watch him leave from the window like some lovesick Juliet, but she did notice that it was several minutes before his motorcycle roared to life and faded into the distance.

*

Hermione had been tempted to dress up for their date, but her limited wardrobe prevented any futile attempts. Instead she had dressed in a brown plaid skirt and a collared blouse layered under a comfortably loose sweater in the same burnt orange color as her swimsuit. It was her favorite color and autumn had begun last week. _Before all of this nonsense._ She was going to be sitting in a car for several hours and didn’t want to wear something restrictive; the fit of the sweater allowed her to go without a girdle.

She put on some mascara.

Tom arrived at her home on time and on his stupid motorcycle. He had forgone the leather jacket in favor of a buttoned-up flannel. He chatted with her parents about the film they were going to see, all while resting his hand on her lower back. _Bold move._ Then they climbed into her Packard, that he would later return her home in and switch out with his motorcycle. The logistics all seemed rather silly and unnecessary just so he could be the one driving. Heaven forbid she pick him up at his home. Or even just meet him at the drive-in.

Sunset had begun around the time Tom had arrived and as they drove to the movie in silence, the sky had softened from orange to a lilac twilight. By the time they had parked, set up their speakers, and acquired their concessions, the sky had turned inky black and the orchestra and credits had begun.

It opened with three women leasing a ritzy apartment in the hopes of putting themselves in the paths of rich men. Hermione wasn’t particularly interested in the premise, but the Schatze character had a certain amount of sense and ingenuity that appealed to her. Every time Loco spoke, Hermione internally cringed. The character’s dim-wittedness was obviously meant to be funny, but it was just too much.

Through the first half of the movie, Hermione had been occupied with eating and following the plot, but her attention had begun to stray as they approached the halfway point. There was a scene with several minutes of outfits being modeled for one of the male characters and she began sneaking covert glances at Tom while she drank her chocolate milkshake. His brow was furrowed in a look of frustration that was incongruent with the mild scene. After several moments, he hadn’t seemed to relax. She continued to observe him through Loco’s ridiculous hysterics, and he continued to sit in a tense cloud of despondency.

Finally, confused and somewhat uncomfortable, Hermione reached for Tom. She lightly touched the back of the hand that was gripping his slacks. Without looking at her, Tom released the fabric and cupped the back of her left hand, resting her palm against his thigh. There was nothing inherently sexual about their position. She was just touching a leg. An immobile cloth covered leg. Tom’s hand rested over hers but didn’t press down or drag her own upward. Even so, her chest felt tight in anticipation and a part of her that she was _not_ going to acknowledge fluttered and ached. She almost felt sick, but not _sickened._

Loco had just discovered that she had measles and intermission began so that families could take children to the restroom or buy more refreshments. Hermione pulled away and twisted in the seat to face him. “Are you okay Tom? You seem upset.”

He had regained control of his expression and now stared at her coolly. There was a taut moment where they regarded each other, and Tom seemed to debate whether he should speak. “Am I a just a gas pump jockey to you?”

Hermione didn’t think she could have been more surprised. _Why on earth would he ask that?_ “What are you talking about?”

Tom jerked his head toward the screen, “In the movie, that dame Schatze, or even the other two. Men like me are fine for carrying your groceries, but you wouldn’t have glanced at me if I hadn’t murdered a guy directly in front of you.”

Hermione gaped at his hyperbole, except, it wasn’t much of an exaggeration was it? “Lower your voice!” she hissed, “Why the hell do you care if I would have noticed you? I-“ she struggled to form a coherent thought, “What the _hell?”_ she sputtered.

Instead of explaining his absolutely wild train of thought, Tom turned back to the screen, where the movie had begun again. For the next forty minutes, Hermione sat stewing in confusion and irritation for her pretend boyfriend. _Her pretend boyfriend that was apparently offended that she hypothetically wouldn’t have thrown herself at him if they had met previously._ She tried to calm down and follow the movie’s conclusion. It wasn’t exactly difficult, following the plot that is. Calming herself was a different story.

The women fainted, the movie ended, and Tom did not start the car.

“Tom,” Hermione began, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset with me.”

“Never mind,” Tom said, “It was a stupid thing to say.”

“It was,” Hermione agreed, “But you said it. So now you have to follow through.”

Tom’s brow creased and he looked straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel, “I work two jobs and I don’t have a car or a degree yet.” He turned his head to meet her gaze but kept his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, “Other men my age are already married; some even have kids.”

“Do you want a wife and kids?”

“Not yet, but that’s not the point.”

“That is the point!” Hermione threw her hands up, “You can’t project your insecurities on me, you narcissist! All we did was watch a movie !It’s literally named _How to Marry a Millionaire._ ” She made to grab her small leather handbag from the floor of the car, “If you’re going to behave like a jackass, I’m walking to Molly’s.”

She grabbed the door handle, but Tom took her by the wrist, “You can’t walk to Molly’s.”

“The hell I can’t.” She struggled to wrench her arm away.

“No you can’t, and not-“ he cut off her indignant huff, “not because I’m telling you what to do. This is your car Hermione. We need to take it back to your house, and I can’t exactly return it to your parents without you.”

“You’re right, this is _my_ car. I can drive it home. Get out.”

“Hold up,” Tom raised his hands in a placating gesture, “my bike’s at your place. Let’s talk about this.”

Hermione was pissed that he had ruined their fake date, but he was right that they should talk. They needed to cooperate for the foreseeable future and storming off wasn’t going to help anything.

“Fine.” She crossed her arms and sank a little in the leather seat.

“Good,” Tom visibly relaxed.

“Would you have noticed me?”

“What?”

“Would you have noticed me?” Hermione asked him, “If we had shared an English class or sat at the same table in the library, would you have noticed me? Or would I have been just another dowdy girl beneath your notice?”

Tom seemed at a loss for words.

“You can’t haphazardly accuse me of snobbery and _hypothetically_ rejecting you for your social status when you wouldn’t have had any interest in the first place.”

“You’re right,” Tom said, “I wouldn’t have noticed you.”

Hermione had already known it, but the words still felt like a knife sliding smoothly into place between her ribs. And silly thing that she was, her eyes began to sting.

“But to be honest,” he continued, “I didn’t really notice anybody. I still don’t. Not to confirm your accusation of narcissism, but most people _are_ beneath my notice.”

Somehow, his conceit made her feel a little bit better. After a week of him issuing commands, Hermione had begun to realize how self-assured he felt. Whether his confidence was deserved had yet to be seen.

“We can go Tom. My parents will be expecting us soon.” Her voice sounded embarrassingly small, even to her own ears and she turned to look out the window. The engine still didn’t start. Instead, Tom placed his hand over hers on the seat.

“I see you Hermione. It’s hard not to.” He tugged her toward him until she was leaning across the seat and looking up at him with glossy eyes. “You throw yourself at bullies three times your size and read banned books and you’re assisting a murderer.” Tom waggled his brows at her and it was so ridiculous that she couldn’t contain a watery giggle. He pressed his lips against her forehead for a long moment and she absentmindedly thought that they felt a little dry. The chilly autumn evening suddenly felt too humid.

Then he pulled away and started the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione: I just don't understand why he keeps touching me!  
> Tom: Gets a boner every time he thinks about her era appropriate granny panties
> 
> I guess it'll remain a mystery ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I've realized that they are constantly holding hands and at this point it's just a physical representation of how desperate they are for help/companionship/connection/what-have-you. It's going to continue. Hand holding is its own entity now.
> 
> I don't know how people can write slow burns (even though I love reading them) I have to constantly resist the urge to let the two of them just throw themselves at one another.
> 
> Also, despite Hermione's issues with it, How to Marry a Millionaire is one of my favorite movies.


	6. Autumn Naps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made an aesthetic for this story :)

Tom smoothed his forest green sweater vest in the mirror. A little over two weeks had passed since he had made a fool of himself at the drive-in and Hermione had not abandoned him after the embarrassing display. She had consented to one date per week for the foreseeable future. This would be their third scheduled rendezvous since then. Hermione had convinced him to attend a picnic in the park. “It appears romantic and it’s in _public_ ” she had said with a pointed look last week.

Tom wasn’t sure he’d ever been embarrassed in his life, but he had been at the drive-in. In the past, people had tried to shame him for his clothes, heritage, or intellect, and yet, he had never felt ashamed because he knew that he was superior, and he would have the last laugh. Someday, people like Abe would be deferring to him. But Hermione had shamed him, and it had worked.

As the movie had progressed, Tom had become increasingly self-conscious, another feeling he was unaccustomed to. He liked Hermione. He wasn’t entirely sure why. He had known other people just as well-read, just as fool-hardy, with bleeding-hearts like hers, but somehow, she embodied all of these traits in a manner he found attractive, rather than pathetic. Maybe because those traits were directed toward him with sincerity.

And unfortunately, he was attracted to her. Not only did it feel beneath him to be moved by a pretty face, but it complicated matters further. He wasn’t sure how long it would last, but he wanted her.

So, when he saw the women in the film denigrating “gas pump jockeys” and turning away potential suitors based on their assumed finances, he had imagined Hermione reacting similarly to his suit. Her parents were technically doctors, her house was large, her car was new, and she didn’t have to work to pay for her degree. If he weren’t keeping her attached through collusion, she wouldn’t tolerate his attentions. And the thought of her hypothetical rejection had led to him lashing out.

They would reevaluate the necessity of their relationship once Abe’s body was discovered. _Who knows, maybe people will believe he fell in and hit his head?_ But he didn’t believe they’d be that lucky. The anticipation of discovery was making him restless. He was tempted to pretend to “discover” Abe himself, just to get it out of the way. But Tom wasn’t stupid. If he found the body, it would go on the police report, and he didn’t want any connection to the murder, even a seemingly innocent one. And the longer Abe was left undiscovered, the longer Tom had with Hermione.

-

The met at the park. Neither of them had classes and Tom was slated to work in the evening. Hermione brought the supplies in her car. She had arrived before him and set up a large quilt under a tree. Trees in California didn’t typically have a beautiful transition of colors in the autumn and in a few weeks the still-green leaves would shrivel and fall without much fanfare. As such, it almost felt like a temperate spring day.

Hermione sat with her back against the tree, her nose in a book, oblivious. Tom was able to observe her as he approached. She wore a gray knit skirt with a deep red cardigan and had left her hair unbound. Her backpack lay at her feet, but no quaint picnic basket. Tom settled in beside her, but she did not look up from her book.

“There is food, right?”

“Mhm.” She hummed vaguely.

Tom took that as an invitation and leaned forward to snatch up her backpack. Inside he found two paper wrapped sandwiches, a Tupperware container filled with strawberries, and a bottle of what appeared to be apple cider accompanied by two glasses wrapped in another blanket. Without further ado, he leaned back, shoulder-to-shoulder with Hermione, and began eating one of the sandwiches.

After a few moments, she sighed and closed the book, “I can’t read with you chewing in my ear.”

Tom swallowed, “What are you reading?”

“It’s _Pride and Prejudice,_ for British Literature. I have an essay due tomorrow.”

Tom turned to her, surprised, “And you’re only reading it now?”

“Of course not,” she huffed and turned her head to look up at him, “I finished the essay several days ago. But I’m reading it again to make sure I didn’t miss any of the nuance.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes dear.” She replied sarcastically and grabbed her own sandwich. Tom knew that she had said it mockingly, but the endearment warmed some hollow forgotten place within his breast, which was then offset by his irritation at such a ludicrous reaction.

They ate in companionable silence for a while and Tom realized that this was one of the things he liked about her, her ability to just sit in silence without needing to fill it with chatter. They finished their sandwiches and while Hermione poured herself a glass of cider, Tom stretched onto his back, with his head resting beside Hermione’s thigh. The tree provided enough shade to block the sun, but he closed his eyes anyway.

Tom imagined he could feel the heat of Hermione’s skin radiating through her skirt and warming his cheek. He was enveloped in the scent of wool and rosewater and he could hear the _‘fsk’_ of her turning her book’s pages. Despite his awareness of their precarious situation, both legally and personally, he thought that this may be what peace felt like. Not that he had ever been particularly agitated, but in that moment, he was able to be comfortable with a companion aside from his own solitude.

“You’re Schatze, you know?”

Tom was startled out of that foggy place between sleeping and waking by Hermione’s voice.

“What?” He blinked up at her, chin tucked against her chest to meet his gaze.

“I’m not sure who you were relating yourself to in the movie, maybe some amalgamation of all the male characters, rich and poor. But you’re not any of them; you’re Schatze.”

Tom sat up and then rotated himself so they sat facing one another, his hip beside her Mary-Janes, her hand next to his oxfords. “Have you spent nearly three weeks thinking about that?” he asked.

“Don’t turn this on me,” she said, “you’re the emotionally stunted narcissist.” She raised a brow but the glint of mischief in her wide brown eyes let him know she was teasing him.

“Explain yourself then.”

“Okay,” Hermione extended her arms across her knees and wriggled her fingers like a stretching cat, “Well if you look at the two other couples in the film, they’re all just lovable oafs. Attractive, charming, lacking in funds. The central couple are the only ones with any sense. One could say an overabundance of it. Schatze’s prejudices led her to reject a man that fits all of her criteria and he allows her misconception.”

Tom fiddled with the lace on her ankle socks, “I don’t see how that relates to me.” He took a risk and rested his hand on the skin just above the sock.

She flushed sweetly but continued, “I guess, really, you and I are both similar to her. Intelligent, but trapped by the circumstances of our births. You, missing family and resources, and me being a woman. I suppose the biggest difference is that you don’t need to rely on marriage to change that.”

Distracted from the original point, Tom asked, “What do you mean by you being trapped?” Just as before, he thought back on her home, car, and education.

“I’ll start with my schooling,” she said, “very few colleges are coed and at our university there’s only one other female math major. I’d like to be a professor someday, but I’d be limited to being hired at universities that allow women. So, geographically, I’m limited.” She propped her elbows on her knees and placed her chin within her palms. “Then when I’m employed and on my own for example, I can’t have my own credit card. If I get married, my husband will be able to decide whether I’m allowed to have one or not. He’ll also be able to decide whether I continue working, and if I become pregnant, I’m legally allowed to be fired for it.”

Tom was stunned. He’d known all of this in theory. It was common knowledge, but he’d never had it laid out before him like this. He’d never had to give it more than a passing thought. For a moment, he imagined a future where they went their separate ways. _That cretin, Weasley, would swoop in and harangue her into giving him a chance. And suddenly, she’d be married and confined to a home, caring for half-a-dozen children with bright orange hair._ Hermione would be a great mother, stern but empathetic. _At least he imagined that was what a good mother was like._ He also imagined it would be hard for her to read her books at all if she were constantly waiting on others. It would be a travesty.

He still hadn’t said anything when she broke the silence, “You haven’t told me what you’re going to school for. I know we go to the same college, but I don’t know what your major is.”

“It’s political science,” he attempted a charming smile.

“Oh? What do you plan on doing with that?”

“Politics, I think. Just keep going for as long as I can. Maybe governor or a senator. Maybe even the president.” He half-teased.

“I can see that,” she said. Whether she meant she could see him as a politician or as the president, he wasn’t sure.

“Speaking of politics though,” he looked away, nervous for once, “My mentor is having a Halloween party that I’m obligated to attend, and I’d like you to be my plus one. I understand if you’d rather not. It’s formal and-“

“Of course, Tom,” Hermione took his hand, “I’d love to go. Do I need to wear a costume?”

“Yes. A formal one.” _Stupid._ Tom wanted to kick himself.

“Do you know what you’re going as? Halloween’s only two weeks away and I need to by a matching dress.”

Tom absentmindedly stroked her soft hand with his thumb as he contemplated it, “I don’t have a costume in mind, but I’ll be wearing a suit.” _His only suit._ “It’s black if that helps.”

“Do you know what color your tie will be?”

“Black?”

She snorted good-naturedly, “I guess I can work with that.”

By that point, they had both leaned forward, arms around their legs, heads lying on their knees, so that they mirrored one another. Their faces were not even a foot apart. Their hands were still connected and resting on the quilt between them. Tom could still smell rosewater.

“We should schedule our next date,” he murmured.

“I chose this one, so what do you want to do?”

He hesitated. _Should he ask for what he really wanted?_ “We could go to Hogsmeade.” Her eyes widened a fraction, “We won’t do anything. We could just sit in the car and talk. Gotta keep up appearances, ya know?” he rushed to clarify.

“Tom?”

“Hm?”

“Could I kiss you?”

The pistons within Tom’s brain ground to a halt, “What?” He tried to catch her eye, but she looked away, the skin beneath her freckles bright red.

“Would you let me try kissing you? If I asked?”

“Are you asking to?” he waited anxiously.

“I know you just said we didn’t need to do anything at Hogsmeade,” her eyes twitched toward him and then away again, “but I’ve never kissed anyone before and I think I’d like to try. Kissing, that is. Obviously, I-“

Tom grabbed her face in both hands but leaned himself forward to close the gap and press his lips against hers. Hermione had been mid-sentence and her sweet little mouth was still parted. She froze. Tom resisted the urge to take advantage, he didn’t want to scare her off when she had just done something so wonderfully impulsive. He had never done this before either.

_Had he told her that? Did she expect him to be good at this?_

Softly, he pulled away and then pressed his lips to hers again. And again. He continued to gently brush his lips against Hermione’s until she sighed against him. She must have been eating the strawberries while he dozed; she tasted like them.

It was Hermione that made the next move, breaking contact long enough to kneel between his outstretched legs, extending her arms past his shoulders, she leaned in to continue their kiss.

_Kisses. Plural._

Tom took that as encouragement and braced his hands around the dip in her waist. The layers of cardigan, blouse, skirt, and god-knows what else prevented him from feeling her the way he wanted to. Frustrated at his inability to explore further, he threaded his fingers through her thick curls and cupped the back of her head, gripping the roots tenderly. She gave a little gasp at that and Tom pushed his lips against hers a little harder, a little more eagerly. Their teeth bumped at one point, but she didn’t seem to care. Hermione was only touching his lips and his shoulders, but he felt his slacks tighten and he wished that he had worn jeans instead. It would have been more painful, but also less embarrassing.

They jerked apart from one another when some crude teenage boy wolf-whistled and made a vulgar gesture at them. Hermione buried her face in Tom’s shoulder and her body shook.

“Hermione, uh,” he was out of breath, “are you crying?”

“No,” her voice was muffled in his sweater vest, so she lifted her head, “It’s just so embarrassing.” Seeing the dark turn his expression had taken, she quickly backpedaled, “Not that kissing you is embarrassing.” Her face was red from what he hoped was a combination of arousal and maybe bashfulness, “Just being caught kissing in the middle of a public park. There are children around!” she shoved her face into his shoulder again.

“So, does this mean we’ll be using your car for it’s intended purpose next week?”

She laughed against his throat and her hot breath sent another wave of arousal through him, “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happened!!! I knew that I wanted their first kiss to occur this chapter, but I wasn't expecting Hermione to initiate it. That just sort of happened naturally as I wrote.
> 
> This story is being bumped up to E btw and I finished a rough outline for it. I am estimating it'll be around 30,000 words.
> 
> And also you guys left the greatest comments on the last chapter! I am going to print them out and make a collage. *cries* I read them all out loud to my husband


	7. Cryptozoology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is explicit fyi

“What do you think of this one Hermione?” Hermione turned away from the department store rack she had been perusing and to glance at Ginny holding a vibrant pink gown against her front.

“I don’t think the color goes well with your hair.” Honestly, she didn’t think the garish dress would go with anybody’s coloring, “What are you going as anyway?”

Ginny replaced the dress in its respective place and continued her search, “I have no idea yet. I figured I’d just find a decent dress and base my costume on that.”

Hermione hummed in response. She had a similar plan, but after her disastrous prom several years ago, she didn’t trust her own judgment in this arena. Unfortunately, Tom’s party was formal, and she couldn’t get away with her usual plain blouse and skirt combo. Her saving grace came in the form of Ginny and Luna Lovegood also attending. All three were the plus ones of their partners, Ginny with Harry, and Luna with Pansy Parkinson. Not that the other guests would be aware of Luna and Pansy’s relationship. To the world they were just roommates, best friends in a Boston marriage.

Speaking of which, “How is Pansy doing Luna?”

Luna had been sitting quietly on a changing room chaise with a sparkling midnight blue gown laid across her lap. Her eerie blue eyes focused on Hermione, “She’s doing well, but she’s become a bit tense with Mercury entering retrograde in a couple weeks.”

“That’s… unfortunate.” Hermione replied diplomatically. Of all her casual friends, Luna was probably the one that set Hermione the most out of sorts. She was a sweet girl, but exceedingly difficult for the mathematically inclined Hermione to relate to, “And your father?”

“I’m expecting his call tomorrow. His book tour is taking up a lot of his time.” Luna said with a wistful smile. Luna’s father was an expert in UFO’s and after the Roswell crash six years ago, he had moved to New Mexico and become a minor celebrity. In contrast, Luna considered herself an up-and-coming cryptozoologist.

“It’s so frustrating,” Ginny spat, “all of these dresses are sleeveless, and I won’t be able to hide anything.” Frowning, she pulled up her cap sleeve to reveal a baseball sized bruise.

Hermione winced in sympathy, “The party is nearly two weeks away, it should be gone by then.”

“Don’t be silly Hermione,” Ginny grinned, “You know there’ll be more.”

Hermione’s laugh came out in a huff and she rolled her eyes fondly. Ginny played field hockey for their university and roller derby as a hobby. She was right to worry over the cut of her gown.

Hermione grabbed a few dresses at random and headed into the dressing rooms. She just needed to keep trying on gowns until Ginny told her one was good enough. She shimmied out of her clothing and squeezed into the first evening dress. Having had the foresight to wear her girdle, her hips and lower abdomen lacked the dips and dents she was accustomed to hiding with petticoats. It was a deep emerald green satin number, strapless, floor-length, with a slit that ended at her knee. Ruching at the midriff nipped in her waist and Hermione felt, dare she say it, _sexy._ For once she thought her arms looked soft instead of flabby, her breasts were voluptuous rather than matronly.

“Oh!” she heard Ginny gasp in alarm and, momentarily forgetting her state, Hermione flung the stall door open with a _bang._ Ginny’s eyes were wide, and she held a small packet in one hand and Hermione’s purse in the other, “ _Hermione,”_ she hissed scandalously, “why do you have _condoms?”_

Groaning, Hermione plopped herself down next to Luna and buried her fiery cheeks in her hands, “My mother gave them to me a few days ago. In case Tom and I were ‘serious’ as she put it.” That had been a mortifying discussion, full of half-truths and diversion tactics. What was she supposed to tell her mother?

_Tom and I aren’t really going steady. I’m just his alibi in case he’s accused of murder. But I’ve also made out with him a couple times now. And maybe I will need these condoms in case my hormones get the best of me. But don’t worry mom, that shouldn’t happen._

“Speaking of Tom…” Ginny hedged, “I don’t know why, but I always thought you and Ron might date someday.”

Hermione had once had similar thoughts too, but she had never taken them very seriously. “I know he’s your brother Ginny, and I don’t mean to insult him, but he’s hard to take seriously. When he wasn’t flirting with me, he was asking for help with his homework or hooking up with Lavender. And he didn’t indicate any serious intentions until Tom came around. I can’t wait around forever.” And despite her relationship with Tom being a sham, everything she said was true. She couldn’t wait around for Ron to grow up and start treating her like something desirable rather than a convenience.

“I understand,” Ginny nodded. “He is kind of an idiot,” she said with sisterly affection, “and Tom is really cute. In a skinny vampire sort of way.”

Hermione was struck by the image of Tom bent over her prone form and dressed like Bela Lugosi. The changing area suddenly felt stuffy. “Maybe he could dress as one for the party,” she murmured, a little breathless.

“I like your dress,” Luna interrupted Hermione’s inappropriate thoughts, “very Botticelli.”

Hermione glanced down at her straining bosom and hightailed it back into the changing room.

-

In the end Hermione had settled on an off-the-shoulder swing dress in sparkly black tulle. The silhouette was similar enough to her usual clothing to make her feel comfortable. The three of them had brain-stormed and decided she would be a black cat; all she needed were a pair of heels and a stick of kohl. She had also decided to pitch the vampire idea to Tom, as he didn’t seem like a creative type.

Tom and she were doing their usual motorcycle-car swapping and driving to Hogsmeade Ridge to watch the sunset that night. Their town was nestled in a valley and as such, Hogsmeade Ridge encompassed an entire length of mountainside. Young people enjoyed using it as a hookup location because the expanse of it kept police from finding and breaking them up as easily.

As she dressed, Hermione found herself considering what Tom would think of her outfit. She knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help the sense of eagerness that had taken hold since the transformation of their relationship from something imaginary to something tactile. After an inexcusable amount of worry devoted to Tom’s preferences, she chose a plain navy dress with buttons down the front and a belt in the middle. She was trying too hard, but he didn’t need to know that.

The dress was too mature for ankle socks and Mary Janes, so she threw on a garter belt and nude stockings to wear with plain flats. She’d look like any woman at the grocery store. And despite how plainly she had intentionally dressed, she still felt herself flush and tingle with anticipation at the thought of their hypothetical activities.

They would just kiss. That’s it. She wouldn’t let it go any further. _That way lies madness_ Hermione told herself.

When Tom arrived, Hermione hurried down the stairs and out the door with him, deftly sidestepping her parents. This time, Tom opened and closed her passenger door for her before slipping into the driver’s seat of her car, and she was struck by the out of character gesture. It was finally chilly in the evenings, so they kept the windows rolled up. They drove in silence as they often did, but this time in particular, she could physically feel the tension clouding the car and spreading between their two bodies.

They parked tucked into the crook of a flat expanse that afforded them some semblance of privacy from potential passerby on the road. The sun still sat above the horizon, a rich blood-orange in a sea of pink that ascended into lavender. Tom produced a flannel blanket, seemingly from thin air, and spread it over the hood of her Packard. She hadn’t seen him sneak it into the car.

They left the car running and a door open so they could listen to the radio, at least for a little while. Climbing onto the hood without exposing herself was a challenge, but Hermione managed. By the time they sat side by side, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon. The hood was warm from the engine and felt cozy in the brisk evening air. Hermione allowed her side to press against his, _for added warmth of course,_ but it was Tom that reached behind her to grip her waist and pull her tightly against him.

“Y’know,” she broke the companionable silence, “we could have just put the blanket on the ground.”

“Mhm.”

Hermione turned forward again, but she could only remain quiet for a few more moments. “I’ve never just watched the sunset before. It happens much more quickly than you would think.”

He hummed noncommittally. Hermione felt hyperaware of Tom’s hand gripping the dip of her waist and she felt almost jealous of the layers of leather and flannel he wore. They’d be a better defense against these unwelcome urges than her flimsy dress and cardigan were.

Once the sun had disappeared and the sky had turned into a gentle gray-blue twilight, Hermione turned to him again, “I had an idea.” Tom’s pale skin took on a corpselike pallor in the fading light, “You should be a vampire for the party. All you’d need is a cape.”

Tom cracked a smile at that, “That’s not a bad idea. Do you know what you’re going to be?”

“Just a black cat,” Hermione shrugged.

“Is that so?” he mused over it, “I like the sound of that. You are a hissy little thing, aren’t you?”

Hermione bristled at his teasing but tried to resist proving him right, “Have you been to one of these before?”

“Oh yeah, at least twice a year for the last three years.”

She didn’t know why, but Hermione hadn’t expected that, “Am I the first date you’ve brought?” She feigned casual curiosity, but she doubted he was fooled.

“You’re the first date I’ve ever had Hermione. I thought you knew that.” He seemed almost sheepish, but she suspected that was an impossible expression on him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione thought he might have mentioned it before, but it was hard for her to believe. Was he an exceptionally good kisser? Or was she just too inexperienced to tell the difference between skill and eagerness? All she knew was that every time he touched her; heat pooled between her thighs.

Billie Holiday’s “Mean to Me” floated through the air from the car and Hermione had an idea, “If I’m your first date, I’ll bet you’ve never slow danced.” She clumsily slid herself down the hood, dragging some of the blanket with her. Hermione extended her hand to him, “May I have this dance?” Tom hesitated and looked around as if someone may appear to witness his embarrassing display, “Come on!” she demanded, only a little petulantly.

Sighing, he climbed down much more smoothly than she had, and took her hand, “So what do we do?”

Even though she had suggested it, Hermione was at a bit of a loss. She hadn’t done this before either. Pretending confidence, she took both of his hands and placed them on the upper swell of her hips. She laced her fingers behind his neck.

_“You're mean to me_

_Why must you be mean to me?_

_Gee, honey, it seems to me_

_You love to see me cryin'”_

Hermione loved Billie’s crooning. She had all of her records at home and put them on whenever she felt particularly maudlin. At first they inelegantly swayed with a few inches separating them; a respectable distance. They kept making awkward eye contact and looking away from one another. But as the song progressed, they instinctually moved closer and began to rotate and a small circle.

_“I don't know why_

_I stay home each night_

_When you say you'll phone_

_You don't and I'm left alone_

_Singing the blues and sighin'”_

Hermione rested her cheek on his collarbone as their bodies melted together. The smell of beeswax had become a comforting familiarity. Her hips swayed from side to side without leaving his and just before the song finished, Tom jerked his hands away and took a step back.

“What’s wrong Tom?” Hermione asked, hurt. He turned his back on her and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Hermione circled to face him, “Why won’t you look at me?” He hunched his shoulders forward slightly and refused to make eye contact. And suddenly it struck her, Hermione would have never considered this before, but she did now. She stepped forward and before he could turn away again, she palmed the front of his jeans. _Oh._

She removed her hand but remained close to him. “You don’t need to feel embarrassed Tom,” she breathed, “I feel the same way.”

Finally, he met her eyes, “You do?”

Hermione nodded, eager to assuage his shame, “I- Whenever you touch me I get all hot, and frazzled, and-“ she took a risk, “and _wet_.” Tom released a groan that ruffled her hair and was a step away from a whine. “Could we- could we do more than kiss Tom?” Hermione leaned into him, letting her breasts brush his chest.

“Are you sure Hermione?” His voice, which wasn’t especially deep, had become rough and low.

“I’m sure, but could we do it in the car?”

“Of course,” he closed the open driver’s side door and led her to the backseat. He opened the door for her, and Hermione slid inside as far as she could go. Tom followed. Once the door closed, they sat unmoving, unsure of how to proceed.

Tom reached for her, “Come here.” He gripped her waist and dragged her toward him and after a moment of maneuvering Hermione was straddling his thighs.

In this position, Hermione was a few inches taller than him and had to look down to meet his stare. Her petticoats bunched around her waist and gave her a small sense of security as she wasn’t totally exposed. Tom placed his elegant hands on her considerable thighs and lightly stroked his fingers up and down the seam between her stockings and bare skin. His sigh was tremulous, and his shoulders slumped forward in relief. “I’ve been imagining this,” he told her.

“You have?” Hermione asked, a little self-conscious. _What if she didn’t live up to his imagination?_

“Something like this, but usually a little more… explicit.” He grinned and surged upward to eagerly catch her lips with his. They tried to start slowly, but after a few seconds of carefully dragging their lips along one another, Tom licked her lower lip. Unsure, Hermione parted her lips and allowed him in. His hot breath filled her mouth and Hermione closed her lips around his tongue and sucked lightly. Tom hummed against her and Hermione continued, even attempting to stroke his tongue with hers while continuing her ministrations.

Unconsciously, she ground her hips against his jeans, searching for friction. Her breasts had begun to ache and she writhed, not knowing what to do with herself. Sensing her discomfort, Tom stroked her back with one hand and reached up to grasp one of her breasts with the other. Hermione whined at the sensation that was so good, but not enough. She broke the kiss and began to undo the buttons on the top portion of her dress, panting. Once they were undone as far as she could go without removing her belt, Tom tried to shove her bra straps down her shoulders, which wasn’t entirely possible in her partial state of undress. Giving up when the straps would budge no further, he clasped the plain cotton cups and pull them below her breasts, her tits thrust outward once they were no longer confined.

Hermione was ready to scream in frustration from all of this grabbing and pulling with no real relief, until Tom leaned forward to suck at one breast. The soft sense of respite surprised her, and she watched as Tom sucked, and licked, and pressed her breasts together. Hermione sifted her fingers through his loose curls and rolled her hips. The stiff fabric of his jeans chafed against her cotton panties.

_Was this what sex was like? A long slow torture of never feeling quite satisfied?_

_“Tom,”_ she sighed.

He released her breasts to look up at her and Hermione would never be able to describe her reasoning, but she loved the sight of him below her, supplicated before her ample bosom.

He reached down to undo his fly, _“Tom!”_ she gasped in alarm.

“Don’t worry kitten, you don’t need to do anything. It just hurt too much with the jeans.” Just like their position, Hermione couldn’t explain why she preened at his new pet name for her. “I don’t know what I’m doin’ kitten, but I want this to be good for you. Have you touched yourself before?” Hermione flushed but nodded, “I want you to touch yourself. Can you do that kitten?” Unable to speak, Hermione nodded again.

With one hand on Tom’s shoulder for balance, Hermione pushed past her petticoat to slip her hand into her white cotton panties. Tom watched, rapt, but continued to knead and tweak her breasts as she began to circle her finger around her clit. Experimentally, she rolled her hips again and it felt _so much better_ than just rubbing at herself. With Tom’s thighs and shoulder to balance her, Hermione held her fingers in place and began to grind against her own hand. The motion caused her breasts to bounce in rhythm with her undulating and the sight of Tom stroking himself through his underwear at the spectacle made Hermione feel powerful and seductive. Her thighs ached and tensed, growing tighter and tighter until the tension snapped, and Hermione let herself fall forward with a low drawn out moan. The emptiness between her thighs pulsed for several moments and she ached for it to be filled despite her orgasm.

“I’m sorry Tom,” Hermione said once she had caught her breath.

“Why would you be sorry?” he asked incredulously.

“I didn’t- I barely even touched you.”

He laughed, and motioned toward his open fly, where she could now see a large wet spot.

She giggled, “I’m not laughing at you. I’m just- just a little hysterical right now.”

Tom pulled her bra back into place but left her dress gaping, “Don’t worry kitten; come here,” he pulled Hermione’s head down to his shoulder and began to stroke her curls and her spine, “You were so good. I can’t even believe it. The sight of you coming above me was… transcendent.” She giggled again.

Without letting go of one another, they stretched across the back seat and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This semester is killing me.  
> But I received a really nice comment and then churned this out in a six hour marathon writing session while my husband and child slept. It's after midnight.  
> I have not proofread this chapter, so sorry about that.
> 
> ~Edit 10/23/2020~  
> I went through and proofread. I changed the wording in a couple places, but everything is essentially the same.
> 
> Also, the boner while slow dancing thing actually happened between me and my husband XD  
> We were in our 20's and I was the first girl he'd ever slow danced with. But it was in the privacy of our own home so no public humiliation.


	8. Pumpkin the Pink Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, the word queer is used once in this in the old-fashioned sense of meaning weird

_October 26 th, 1953_

_I’m losing my goddamned mind Diary._

_I’m obsessed. Always pathetically looking for an excuse to see her like some infatuated schoolboy. I returned her cardigan, asked for her help with my costume, told her we need to keep up appearances. They’re all just excuses. Nobody but Weasley’s questioned our relationship._

_I had told myself that I just needed to keep an eye on her, but it’s not true. I want her for myself. I want to touch her and discuss classes and quantitative logic. Since that night in the car we’ve only kissed. Hermione hasn’t let us have any real privacy since then. It’s making me doubt myself and that’s making me angry._

_I don’t understand her. She’s initiated every encounter. She asked me to dance. She grabbed my pants like some wanton._

_I’m not sure where I picked up that word, but it’ll do._

_She’s made me this mess. She told me she felt the same and she continues to kiss me and let me hold her, but no further._

_Maybe she wants some sort of declaration first. Dames are queer about that stuff._

-

It was the day before Halloween and Hermione had suggested they spend it at the Fall Fair a couple towns over. Hermione had reluctantly agreed to let Tom drive them there on his “death trap” so that they wouldn’t need to switch vehicles. When he arrived, she was already standing at the end of the driveway, shuffling her feet. Tom stopped at the curb but didn’t bother getting off the bike. He undid his leather chin strap and removed his helmet so he could offer it to her.

Hermione took the helmet and pulled it down over her mane of loose curls. The ends poofed outward and she resembled a miniature brunette poodle. As Tom silently observed her fiddling with the strap, he realized that Hermione was wearing pants. Jeans to be exact. He’d never seen her wear pants before. A loose crimson sweater was tucked into the high waistband, exaggerating her broad hips, and Tom looked away.

“You should really buy another helmet if we’re going to keep doing this,” she said at his back. He felt her step onto the footrest and swing her leg behind him.

“There’s no point if this is going to end soon anyway,” he replied. Without waiting for an answer, he twisted the throttle, and they were propelled forward. Hermione squeaked and dug her nails into his abdomen. _Oops_. He hadn’t stopped to make sure she had a secure grip on him yet.

The fairgrounds were about forty minutes away, next to another beach. Hermione relaxed much more quickly this time around. Whenever he looked back to change lanes, he saw her studying the passing scenery, rather than hiding her face in his back. They passed through farm country, miles of unending fields, some bare and others bounteous based on their crop. Strawberry carts appeared every few minutes as their season was coming to an end.

Unable to speak over the sound of the engine, Tom was left alone with his thoughts. He’d always been alone with his thoughts. His peers didn’t appreciate his genius. His professors saw him as a novelty, a pet. But Hermione had seen other sides of him. Murderer, protector, an intellectual equal, and a red-blooded male. He could be alone with his thoughts and take comfort in the warmth of her against his back, the strength of her thighs gripping his hips, even the occasional pinch of her nails whenever they hit a bump in the road.

He thought back to her comment, _if we’re going to keep doing this._ How long would they keep this up? If they continued, at some point her parents, her friends, they’d have expectations. Most men his age were finishing up college and getting engaged, but Tom was taking longer to graduate because he had to work year-round.

Tom had been telling himself he’d never be desperate enough for affection to tie himself to a woman. But maybe it wasn’t about being desperate. Maybe it was just the next logical step. Part of him had always known that if he wanted to acquire the positions he had in mind, he’d need a wife for appearances. Taciturn bachelorhood wouldn’t sell to the voters. But a bushy haired math professor of a wife probably wouldn’t sell either. Conversely, having a wife he could tolerate would be easier on him.

Maybe it could work. He’d get a sensible wife that’s obligated not to betray his secrets and she’d get a husband that wouldn’t try to stifle her career goals.

-

The fair was crowded. Hermione clung to Tom’s arm as people jostled them every which way. To the left of the entrance was an all-day bingo tent and to the right there was a smaller two-seat Ferris Wheel. A much larger one could be seen in the distance. After a moment’s hesitation, they let themselves be swept forward and walked along the main corridor of vendors. Food and crafts were hawked at them as they passed, but nothing caught their eye and they ambled along without a destination in mind.

Eventually, they entered a large building with textiles on display. Quilts and lace table runners adorned the walls, with blue and yellow prize ribbons pinned to them. Uninterested, the pair completed a circuit around the perimeter and left to find another display. The next building contained woodworking. Hermione seemed to enjoy the children’s section, full of ingenious little toys that bowed or danced or kicked their legs when a lever was pushed or pulled. She held each contraption every which way to study the mechanics, squinting and poking at tension bands. Her curiosity was endearing, and Tom laughed as he dragged her away against her half-hearted protestations.

The back of the fairgrounds contained the livestock and 4-H club displays. It smelled of hay and manure. Children sat in pens with their prize-winning lambs, pigs, and chickens. Hermione cooed over every little creature, burying her fingers in lambs’ wool each time they pushed their fluffy faces against the bars looking for treats. Tom had never really understood the appeal of pets, let alone beasts that were going to be eaten at some point, but he allowed Hermione to grasp his hand and hold it out for the little lambs to lick and nibble at. Once he was released, Tom attempted to wipe his hand in her hair, but Hermione squealed and danced out of reach.

They came across a red highland cow and her calf and Tom thought that the calf’s wide brown eyes reminded him of Hermione’s. He opened his mouth to tell her this but stopped. He may not have much experience, but he didn’t think women appreciated being compared to cows; no matter how fuzzy and “cute” they may be.

Next were the horses, left unattended in their stalls. People stroked their muzzles as they passed. Tom nudged Hermione forward, assuming she’d want to baby the giant creatures, but she resisted.

“I’d like to keep all of my fingers, thank you.”

-

It was a little after noon by the time they wandered to a seating area for lunch. After choosing a table and setting their stuff down, Tom went to find a ketchup bottle. Forty-five seconds later, he returned to find an unwelcome ginger in his seat.

“Beat it Weasley,” Tom didn’t waste time with formalities. He hadn’t told Hermione, but all those weeks ago when he had shown her his new license, he had found Weasley waiting outside for Tom to leave. The boy had blustered about leaving Hermione alone, that he knew Tom was bullying her into this. And Tom had sent him on his way with a warning to back off. A warning, that Weasley obviously hadn’t taken to heart.

The other man lazily stood and grabbed his beer from the table, “I’ll see you later ‘Mione.”

“Bye Ron,” she mumbled without looking at either of them.

“I thought I told you to stop seeing him,” Tom said as he retook his seat.

“I’m not _seeing_ him,” she snapped, “he just sat down.”

“Then you should’ve told him to get lost.”

“I can’t just ostracize everybody in my life because my _imaginary_ boyfriend told me to,” she began shaking the ketchup bottle angrily, “Ron can be a jerk, but he’s never done anything wrong. And when this is over, I need a life I can return to.”

Each sentence was like a punch in the gut and Tom did not like that, not one bit.

They ate without the easy intimacy they had been enjoying earlier and the longer they sat in silence the more Tom’s anger grew. He kept telling himself not to be angry with Hermione. How could he be angry with her for pointing out the superficiality of their relationship when he had earlier that day internally referred to her as only a tolerable wife?

A small gasp distracted Tom from his brooding. Hermione was staring off into the distance and he followed her line of sight to find Weasley and some blonde entangled against the side of a booth. Weasley knew they were still sitting there, he knew Hermione would see them at some point, and judging by the slight tremble to her lower lip, he knew it would upset Hermione. _Ah, an appropriate place to direct my anger._ But Tom couldn’t just storm off and start a fight, that wasn’t his style; he’d wait and see where the day took him.

-

It had been twenty minutes since they had entered the massive corn maze and Tom was getting a little worried. They had entered separately, Hermione had challenged him to a race to the center, and he hadn’t found it yet. He could only assume Hermione hadn’t either.

A few more minutes had passed when he heard a faint, “Tom!”

He followed Hermione’s voice until he saw the head of a giant pink teddy bear peering over the stalks, “Hermione!”

“Tom!”

“Stay where you are!” Tom began working his way toward the spot of pink, hitting dead ends several times. Finally, he turned and spotted Hermione with her giant pink companion perched on her shoulders. She had won it at a ring toss game after lunch. Tom was pretty sure the bespectacled teenage boy running the booth had let her skip a few prize levels. Hermione hadn’t seemed to notice the boy’s attention and had reluctantly accepted the massive gift. They had considered passing off the bear to some random child, but now he was glad that they hadn’t. He helped her lower the monstrosity to the ground, before stepping into her personal space to pat down her unruly hair.

“What do you think we should name him?” she asked.

“Name him?”

“The bear, what should we name him?”

“Why on earth would we name it?”

“I was thinking it should be fall-themed,” Hermione said as she leaned upward to rest her arms on his shoulders, “like Acorn or Pumpkin.”

“The bear’s pink.”

“That doesn’t matter; he doesn’t know that he’s pink.”

This may have been the most ridiculous conversation Tom had ever had, which was saying something since he seemed to think the same thing every time he went on a date with Hermione.

“I’ll name him Pumpkin.”

Tom tugged at a curl and watched it spring back into shape. She smelled like roses.

“Whatever you say kitten.”

Hermione blushed prettily and Tom couldn’t resist snatching up her lips with his own. He felt her smile against him, and Tom took the opportunity to seize her jean-clad hips and pull them against his.

An outraged squawk forced them apart and they turned to see a mother dragging her giggling daughter away. The moment ruined; they began their trek out of the maze.

-

Tom was relaxing against the fencing surrounding the tilt-a-whirl when he saw the Weasley kid with his blonde companion. Hermione had wandered off to find a ladies’ room and Tom had been left waiting with Pumpkin. He’d suggested handing it off to a kid again, but Hermione had insisted they keep it.

“He has a name, Tom. You can’t abandon something with a name,” she had argued. He’d huffed and rolled his eyes over her mawkishness, but secretly something in him ached at the sentiment.

Weasley and the girl were watching some juggling demonstration. He had on arm resting on her shoulders and the other holding a beer bottle.

Tom was struck by an idea.

He glanced around the milling crowds for a security guard. Eventually, he spotted a no-nonsense looking middle-aged man with neat salt and pepper hair. _Perfect._ Tom made his way over.

“Excuse me sir,” he began in the same simpering tone he reserved for professors, “but I believe that man over there,” he pointed to where Weasley had begun nuzzling the girl’s neck, “I think he may have had too much to drink. And he may be underage too; we went to school together.” He wasn’t sure Weasley was actually underage, but it couldn’t hurt to throw that in there as well.

“Thanks kid,” the man slapped his hand to Tom’s back in a patronizing gesture and made his way over to the couple.

It was petty, yes, but it made Tom feel _much_ better. At the very least, Weasley would be embarrassed in front of his woman. Ideally, he’d be kicked out.

It turned out that Weasley was a bit more inebriated than Tom had realized. Ruddy-faced and reluctant, he produced an I.D. card for the security guard. Tom couldn’t hear what was said, but it looked like Tom’s guess about the ginger’s age had panned out and the security guard escorted them toward the fair’s front entrance.

“Tom,” Hermione surprised him, “the sun will be setting soon. We should try to get on the Ferris Wheel.”

Abask in the glow of his successful retaliation, Tom was glad to do anything she asked of him. Which, come to think of it, was his default setting in regard to Hermione’s requests, but this time it came with a certain sense of satisfaction attached.

Tom used his height and Pumpkin’s girth to clear their way to the large gondola-style Ferris Wheel. Hermione held onto the back of his jacket as they walked, like a child trying not to lose their mother. The line was long, and Hermione took Pumpkin so that Tom could have a break. With her arms squeezing the bear’s throat, the plush legs still dangled past her knees. The sun fell like a guillotine as they made painfully slow progress through the line. Hermione lazily leaned back against Tom’s front and he wrapped his arms around her waist to clasp his hands over her navel. Her hair had gradually become messier as the day passed and it tickled his nose. Tom figured an itchy nose in exchange for a warm shapely body pressing against him was a fair trade.

When it was their turn, Hermione clumsily stuffed Pumpkin through the gondola door and set it down on a seat. She sat opposite the bear and Tom climbed in beside her. The sun had dipped below the horizon and Tom was reminded of the night they had watched the sunset weeks ago. Somehow blood both rushed downward and into his face. The crisp October air wasn’t enough to keep him from feeling stuffy and hot beneath his aged leather jacket. Tom awkwardly stretched his right arm behind Hermione’s shoulders and pressed her into his side.

“The water’s so pretty,” she murmured against him.

He hummed in agreement.

“Could we visit the beach before we leave?”

“Anything you want kitten.” Hermione slipped her hand under his shirt to rest just above his waistband and Tom bit back a groan, “You’ll be the death of me.” The little minx hummed her approval and Tom gave a quick tug on her hair.

Her tiny gasp in response surprised him, “Y’know Tom, people say boys pull girls’ hair if they like them.”

The idea was ludicrous, but it made Tom think.

Maybe he liked her as more than an ally.

Maybe she was more than tolerable.

Maybe he needed to do something about that.

-

“I just realized that I can’t keep Pumpkin!” Hermione had gasped on their way out of the fairground, “there’s not enough room on your bike.” Tom hadn’t thought of that. He’d just wanted to be rid of it because it was an ungainly nuisance. But Hermione’s pout appeared genuine and her sadness made him uneasy.

Hermione foisted the bear off on a group of young girls before Tom and her made their way to the beach hand-in-hand. A rock wall separated the parking lot from the berm, and they descended the concrete steps leading to the beach. It was deserted, but they walked for a ways. Hermione was getting sand in her flats, so she took them off to carry in one hand. A waning crescent moon provided just enough light so that the ocean glittered, and they could see each other.

Once Tom felt that they were a sufficient distance from the parking lot, he turned on Hermione. Gripping her upper arms, he pressed her backward until her back hit the rock wall. Her shoes fell to the ground.

For a tense moment, panting, they just stared at one another. Tom wanted _something_ but he wasn’t sure what. The men at the auto shop had heard about his girlfriend and teased him over his inexperience. They’d shown him dirty pictures of some woman they’d called Betty. They’d given him ideas he had no idea how to act upon.

He wanted to pull Hermione’s hair so she’d gasp again. He wanted her to forget about Weasley. He wanted her to let him touch her because she liked _him_ , not because of hormones and proximity. He wanted to punish her for making him so self-conscious, but the thought of hurting her sickened him.

Tom compromised with himself. He let go of Hermione’s arms and slid his fingers into the hair at the base of her neck. His thumbs pressed into her jaw as he brought his face down to hers. Their noses brushed and Tom stopped just short of her lips, taking in her ragged breaths. Hermione let out a pathetic whine so soft that Tom almost couldn’t hear it over the hiss of the waves behind them. Their mouths met and Tom slid his tongue past her parted lips to lap at her. She tasted like powdered sugar and funnel cakes. Hermione placed her hands against his chest, but she didn’t push him away.

Impatient, he pulled at her wild hair until her head tilted back, exposing her throat. With the one hand gripping her hair, the other took hold of the side of her throat. He didn’t apply any pressure, but he felt heady and powerful with something so delicate fluttering within his grasp. He bent forward to kiss her throat before giving into the urge to bite down lightly. Her nails dug into his pectorals, but his flannel prevented her from breaking skin.

Tom laved at the spot he had just bitten before pulling away slightly, “I’m sorry kitten,” _no he wasn’t,_ “did that hurt too much? Do you want to stop?”

Breathless, Hermione shook her head in the negative.

“Good.”

Tom surged forward, forcing a knee between her legs to spread her thighs. Their lips met again and Tom ground against her, hating that he couldn’t just slip his hands up her skirt. The only good thing about her pants was the way they had let him see Hermione’s ass for the first time since they’d been swimming a month ago. His hands dropped to her sweater and pulled it from her waistband. He fumbled with her button and zipper. Hermione’s fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, her tenderness contrasting with his aggression.

He kissed her as his hand slid into her panties for the first time. His fingers slipped through coarse curls and into her hot, wet folds. He knew what a clit was, he’d been researching after all, but her jeans were too tight, and he couldn’t maneuver his hand well enough to do anything really. All he could do was shift his hand up and down, rubbing against her wetness blindly.

“Fuck,” he bit out.

“Tom,” Hermione sighed against his shoulder, and Tom realized that despite his clumsy efforts, her hips were pushing against his hand, “Oh Tom.” He loved it when she said his name; he wanted to hear it again and again.

Despite her writhing beneath him, Hermione grew frustrated with their constrained position and pulled his hand out of her pants. Aroused and irritated with their limitations, Tom lifted one foot onto a rock so she could ride his thigh more easily. He grabbed her ribs just under her breasts so that he could support her as they rutted against each other. At some point, Hermione’s sweater had been pushed over the tops of her breasts, still encased in a plain cotton bra. Tom didn’t care, the sight of her tits straining with each thrust and the harsh friction of their jeans against one another were sending him spiraling toward the most painful orgasm of his life. Hermione’s sweet pink lips were parted as she panted, and her eyes were turned downward to watch their entangled bodies. It pushed him over the edge and for a second, horrifically embarrassing time, Tom had come in his pants without Hermione even touching his cock.

Oblivious to Tom’s predicament, Hermione continued to ride his thigh, becoming progressively more vocal as she did. She was whining and mewling, and Tom was happy to support her until she finished. Shuddering, she bowed forward, eyes shut and biting her lower lip to hold something in. Tom would like to know what it was; when they had some privacy and weren’t technically on public property.

Hermione laid her head on his shoulder and let him support her full weight, “I think _you’ll_ be the death of me, Tom,” she laughed quietly against him. Warm masculine pride spread through him, head to toe, and Tom cradled her until she felt ready to stand. Without a car for them to pass out in, they’d need to walk back and then drive forty minutes home on his bike. Hermione turned her back to him and Tom removed his soiled underwear, then stuffed it in one of his jeans pockets so he wouldn’t have to sit in his own cum. Hermione did not repeat the process herself and Tom’s cock twitched at the idea that she’d be wet for him the whole way home.

_I think I’m going to chase this high._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to jasmage for leaving comments on every chapter over the course of a couple hours. You're a rockstar and I love you.
> 
> At this point in time, the average marrying age was 21 for women and 22 for men. Which happen to be Tom and Hermione's ages (that was a coincidence) so contemplating marriage at this point is not all that crazy.
> 
> Things are going to get slightly more kinky but not much so if that's not your thing it shouldn't be a real issue.


	9. A Slughorn Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There is alcohol consumption in this chapter and next chapter there will be some smut that occurs while under the influence, but all parties are consenting adults that are not being taken advantage of

Hermione didn’t really mind the color pink. What she did mind was the entire hall bathroom being redone in a fashionable cotton-candy-pink. Before her mother had remodeled it, the tub had been antique and claw-footed; now it was a plain, pink enamel rectangle flush with the wall. It was probably a silly thing to care about, it served its intended purpose, but it had also lost its character.

It was Halloween afternoon and Hermione would be attending Tom’s party in a few short hours. She had coated her hair in a coconut milk and lemon juice mixture that would supposedly loosen her curls, but she needed to leave it on for an hour before rinsing it out. Twenty minutes had passed and to kill time she had drawn herself a bath; she would rinse her hair in it once she was finished. The tub wasn’t as deep as her old one and Hermione’s knees and shoulders poked above the steaming water.

She wondered what Tom would think of her hair. He didn’t seem to be bothered by its usual state, he touched it often, but most would argue it was in need of some improvement. _Not just some, a lot._

She became increasingly frustrated whenever she spent too much time contemplating Tom. At first she had been wary of him; he had been unbothered by his act of violence and hadn’t expressed any regret or panic. But since their first drive, she’d become progressively more comfortable around her new fair-weather friend. Her rational mind rebelled; lust and verbal assurances weren’t guarantees of his sincerity. It was entirely possible that he was just an impressive actor.

She thought back to them holding hands while parked on the rural road outside of town and Tom bringing up the prisoner’s dilemma. _“If we betray each other, we’ll both be sentenced. It’s in our best interests to stay silent and united,”_ he had said. And at the time she had assured him of her cooperation. But he had twisted the philosophical paradox to suit his needs in the moment and she knew it. Quantitatively, they’d suffer fewer collective consequences if they refused to turn on each other. But qualitatively, Hermione _could_ come out unscathed if she betrayed him. She could say he threatened her, play on the jurors’ sympathy. It would be more difficult with Abe’s father interfering, but it was possible.

The irrational, sentimental side of Hermione had prevented her from reporting him whenever she was seized by anxiety. Tom had done it in self-defense. He’d protected her. He listened to her. She thought he might actually like her. He let her wear his helmet and carried her things without complaint. _He’d fantasized about her and assisted her in two orgasms._

Hermione’s cheeks burned as she remembered the night before at the beach. It was the first time that Tom had been the aggressor in their physical relationship and Hermione had liked it. _A lot._ She’d woken up with a hickey on the side of her throat that morning. It was tender and just turning her head made it throb, acting as a constant reminder of its existence.

_“I’m sorry kitten. Did that hurt too much?”_

Hermione’s nipples tightened beneath the water and she groaned at her body’s disconcertingly enthusiastic reaction. Maybe she could-

The doorbell rang.

Her hand recoiled from where it had been nestled between her thighs. She could hear the soft murmur of voices downstairs, presumably one was her mother, she couldn’t make out the other. A moment later she felt the almost imperceptible vibration of the front door clicking shut. Sighing, Hermione glanced around and realized she didn’t have a watch or a clock anywhere near her. She pulled the tie from her hair and attempted to run her fingers through the slick strands; they parted fairly easily. Hermione scooted her butt toward her heels and dipped the back of her head into the now lukewarm water.

-

“Who was at the door?”

“Hm?” Hermione’s mother glanced up from her magazine, “Oh! Honey, come look!” She hurried Hermione from the kitchen to the living room, “Tom dropped it off.”

Propped in the corner of her father’s recliner sat a simple brown teddy bear with a folded note settled on its lap. Hermione picked it up and tentatively unfolded the paper,

_Hermione,_

_I know he’s not as vibrant or as massive as Pumpkin, but I hope he’ll suffice._

_-Tom_

A tiny smile crept across Hermione’s face.

The letter was just _so_ Tom.

Hermione side-stepped her mother’s prying and skittered back to the safety of her room with her gift. Perched on the edge of her vanity stool, Hermione mulled over Tom’s intentions. She picked apart every seemingly insignificant interaction they’d had over the past month.

_Giving her his jacket in the rain._

_Letting her wear his helmet._

_Showing her his license._

_Inviting her to the party._

_Dancing at twilight._

_Carrying Pumpkin._

_And now her gift._

Oh shit.

-

Tom had given Hermione the address and asked her to meet him there, claiming he didn’t want to ride his motorcycle while wearing a cape.

_“It’s a safety hazard Hermione.”_

She didn’t bother arguing with him over it since it meant they could avoid their usual convoluted vehicle switching. The mansion was situated at the top of a wide flat hill on the outskirts of the town. A valet was waiting at the entrance and took Hermione’s keys from her. She could see through the open double doors that the interior was decorated lavishly. The only thing distinguishing it from a wedding was the black and orange color scheme.

Feeling out of place, she awkwardly stepped to the side to allow other guests through the door. _Was Tom already inside? Where should she go?_

“Hermione,” Tom’s breath warmed her ear from behind.

Hermione spun to face him, “Tom! You scared me,” she laughed in relief. For a moment, both stood motionless, taking in their partner’s costume. Tom wore a black three-piece suit with a white shirt, waistcoat, and tie, creating an approximation of Bela Lugosi’s iconic look. However, Tom had left his hair in its usual coiffure and his cloak lacked any dramatic collar.

Tom’s gaze swept over her form appreciatively, “Nice bow kitten,” he flicked the comically large black bow perched atop her head. Luna had made it for her by threading metal wires through satin, giving the impression of cat ears.

Hermione blushed prettily, “Thanks Tom. You look… handsome.” Her earlier revelation had her feeling shy and uncertain of how to behave. Which was silly because she’d been throwing herself at him for weeks when she had thought nothing would come of it.

He graced her with a dashing grin and offered his arm.

-

“Hermione!” Ginny squealed excitedly and pulled Hermione in for a quick hug. The red head had settled on a green satin dress that was formfitting with a Queen Anne neckline. The high back and three-quarter length sleeves would hide the majority of her bruising. Even so, Hermione could see some purple peeking out from just below the knee-length dress. “Look at your bow!”

“Look at your hat!” Hermione tittered and prodded the wide brim of Ginny’s witch’s hat. It had been constructed from the same fabric as her dress and was held atop her head with a cute bow under Ginny’s chin.

“It’s Luna’s work, obviously,” Ginny nodded her head in the blonde’s direction. Hermione turned slightly to see Luna and Pansy speaking near the hors d'oeuvres table. Luna wore a sparkling full length midnight blue gown, but the real showstoppers were her chandelier earrings that had been fashioned to look like little UFO’s with long delicate beading giving the impression of a beam of light leaving the base of the flying saucer. Hermione smiled fondly at Luna’s creativity. She had once suggested Luna go into fashion, which may lack much in the way of job security but was still more practical than cryptozoology. Luna had, unsurprisingly, ignored Hermione’s advice.

Tom was off somewhere networking, so Hermione suggested they get a drink. Armed with flutes of champagne, the two women settled against a wall to people watch.

“Harry looks nice. What is he supposed to be?” Harry was chatting with a man Hermione didn’t recognize, wearing an elaborately embroidered gold kurta with a deep red sash over his shoulder.

“Nothing in particular,” Ginny grinned into her glass, “White people go gaga over his _exotic_ clothing.” Ginny used one hand to finger quote around exotic. “Me included,” she added with a giggle. “He’ll wear something similar but a bit more subdued for the wedding.”

“How goes the wedding planning?”

“It’s… interesting. Harry’s father is Hindu, but his mother and I are both Catholic. We’re trying to find a way to satisfy everybody.”

“Are Hindu weddings all that different from Christian ones?”

“For one, I can’t wear white.” At Hermione’s look of surprise, Ginny explained further, “In India, white is worn for funerals. Traditionally, I’d wear red, but I don’t know if I’m comfortable with something so bold.”

Hermione nodded sympathetically, “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

Ginny hummed in agreement and they continued to sip their drinks in companionable silence.

“How are things going with Riddle?”

Hermione hesitated. She thought about the teddy bear laying on her pillow at home and then reminded herself that as far as Ginny knew, they’d been going steady for a month and seeing each other casually for longer. She couldn’t admit to her friend that she was suspicious that her boyfriend might actually like her.

Eventually she bit out, “He’s too pretty,” Ginny looked askance at her, “He’s all pale and willowy with his hair falling into his face like a Byronic hero.”

“Isn’t that a good thing…?” Ginny snickered at Hermione’s irrational frustration.

“I guess!” Hermione threw her hands up, sloshing champagne over the side. She couldn’t bring herself to confess to Ginny that she felt unremarkable when compared to Tom. He was classically handsome, intelligent, and ferociously ambitious. Using each other for sex was one thing, but romance?

“I’m getting another drink.”

-

By the time Tom found the girls, Hermione was feeling flushed and giddy. She was only too happy to fall into his arms when he asked her to dance. Tom’s mentor, Slughorn, had hired a band complete with a crooner.

The dancefloor was awash with couples slow dancing to a rendition of Bing Crosby’s “Say It Isn’t So”. Unlike their first dance, Hermione skipped holding herself at a conservative distance and immediately laid her head on Tom’s shoulder. She felt both high and loose and basked in Tom’s lean form supporting her. One of his hands had settled on her midback where her skirt and bodice met, and he idly stroked the boning while his other hand held hers. Hermione closed her eyes and allowed him to turn them in slow circles while she hummed along.

_“Say it isn't so_

_Say it isn't so_

_Everyone is saying_

_You don't love me_

_Say it isn't so”_

_What a depressing song,_ she thought as they swayed. Tom had worn cologne for the party. He smelled like cedar and vanilla. She inhaled deeply and sighed against his neck. He reminded her of an old library. It made her feel safe.

_“People say that you_

_Found somebody new_

_And it won't be long_

_Before you leave me_

_Say it isn't true_

_Say that everything is still okay_

_That's all I want to know_

_And what they're saying_

_Say it isn't so”_

The song had ended, but Hermione continued to sway for a moment. Tom gently took her by the arm and led her to sit on a settee in a secluded corner of the room. Once he had sat down as well, Hermione leaned against him and closed her eyes again. He huffed in amusement and wrapped his cloak over her shoulder so that it was as if they were cuddling under a blanket together. The scent of his cologne engulfed her in a heady shroud.

“Did you like my gift?”

Hermione opened her eyes and glanced up at his carefully neutral face, “I loved it Tom. Thank you.” She leaned up and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“I’ve been thinking Hermione,” he met her half-lidded gaze, “but maybe we should wait until you feel better to discuss it.”

Adrenaline chased away Hermione’s dreamy look and she perked up to lean further into him, “No-no please continue.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, _please._ ” Tom looked her over and seemed satisfied with her attentiveness.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tom spoke slowly, drawing out the tension, “that maybe we should make this official.”

“You mean go steady?”

“Yes, well, yes. As far as everyone else is concerned, we’re an item. But I’d like it to be official. Between the two of us that is.” Tom had obviously been trying to retain a certain amount of decorum, but the effect was lost the longer he spoke.

“I just want to be sure I understand,” Hermione spoke softly, “you would like to continue what we’ve been doing, but long-term? Like commitment? Not just until you feel that you’re safe?”

“Yes.”

“So once again, you would like to be with _me_.”

Tom appeared mildly confused by her emphasis on the final word, but he nodded, “Yes Hermione, I’d like to be with you.”

She threw her arms around him and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was less romance and more insight into Hermione's perspective.  
> I had hoped to have this posted on Halloween but that obviously didn't happen. Sorry :(  
> I am going to reply to some more comments and I hope to have the next chapter posted within a week. Wish me luck.  
> Find me on tumblr at queen-gi-gi I’ve posted another aesthetic board and my own art of Hermione in this chapter


	10. Machiavelli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you forgot, both characters are very slightly inebriated when they get up to sexy shenanigans

Tom was gobsmacked.

During their hour apart, Tom had indulged in a few drinks of his own and his faculties were affected just enough to slow his processing capacity. After he had decided on his course of action, he had endeavored to pursue Hermione to the best of his abilities. He had bought her a gift and complimented her appearance. Maybe he had left her alone too long, but he was, he hated to admit it, nervous to speak to her about his intentions. Worst case scenario, he had feared rejection, but he hadn’t anticipated her crying into his chest. Thankful for the cloak he had wrapped around her previously, Tom held her and remained still in the hopes of avoiding too much attention.

Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, not since elementary school at least. And he marveled at how full of life Hermione was. She was always laughing, or crying, or kissing him. Urges he’d never given much weight. And all of her formidable passions were continually directed at him. It made him feel powerful and desirable in a way his professors never had.

Sniffling a little, Hermione pulled away and the small damp spot she had left on his chest chilled in the open air.

“I’m so sorry Tom. I must look a mess,” her mascara had smeared, and her pert little nose was red, but Tom couldn’t bring himself to care. “I was just so happy and I was just-“ she searched for a word, “overcome.”

A rare grin broke through his calm façade, “So is that a yes?” She had not technically said yes.

“Yes.” She gave him a shy, watery smile.

-

Tom was waiting a respectful distance from the ladies’ room when he heard it.

“The poor mayor,” a man tsked, “it’s a shame what happened to his son.”

“Yes, yes, a shame,” another man replied, “You know Black has had the police searching the hills for weeks? They’re planning to dredge the lake next.”

“The lake? He couldn’t possibly be in the lake. It’s much too shallow.”

“Even so, if he were weighed down it could explain why he hasn’t reappeared.”

“He must have been mixed up with some shady characters to have ended up at the bottom of a lake.”

Internally, Tom took pleasure in the disparaging of Malfoy’s character. _How quickly the elite turned on one another._

“Tom,” Hermione had managed to sneak up on him during his impromptu eavesdropping. He turned to find her refreshed and a little steadier on her feet, a becoming blush beneath her freckles.

“Kitten,” Tom offered his arm, “would you like to go for a walk?” He was rewarded with a beatific smile as her black satin-wrapped fingers encircled the crook of his arm. Hermione leaned against him as Tom led them to a set of French doors that exited to a back garden. Partygoers were absorbed in their own revelry and ignored the young couple as they left the lit veranda to venture further into the darkness. Despite her sensible black pumps, Hermione had trouble navigating the gravel path and clung to Tom a bit more tightly with both arms.

The evening air was crisp, and Tom realized that in addition to clinging, Hermione was also shivering against him. Tom disentangled himself from her grasp and unclasped his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. Between her dark hair and his cloak, Hermione almost appeared to vanish in the dark. Resuming their previous arrangement, they continued further into the garden, surrounded by the scent of roses, but unable to see them.

Hermione hummed quietly in the dark and Tom was suddenly struck by the events of the night. Hermione was his girlfriend now. _She was his._ A wave of possessiveness washed over him. A world of possibilities seemed to open before him. He thought back on all of their frantic pawing and grinding while still fully clothed in semi-public places. How it had been heady but not intimate. How there had always been some sort of invisible line he was trying not to cross.

He could kiss her and know she wanted it because she liked him.

She wanted him for him.

“Oh-“ Hermione sighed, “How cute.” The winding path had led them to a small guest house on the outskirts of the property.

“Would you like to go in?” Tom asked. Hermione quirked her head at him cutely. Everything she did was cute. He was more drunk than he had realized. “I have the keys.”

“Why do you have the keys?”

“Because I live here.”

“Why do you live here?” she asked aghast.

She followed him to the front door as he pulled out his keys, “Slughorn allows me to live in his guesthouse in exchange for doing yard work and running errands for him.”

“That sounds… generous.” Hermione offered.

“He knows it will pay off someday. He’s got a keen sense when it comes to that.” Tom could hear the bitterness in his own voice. The only man to pay him any mind and it was in the hopes of buttressing his future in politics. Tom opened the door and gestured inside, “After you.”

Hermione entered and after removing her pumps and cloak, she did a slow turn in his living room, observing his sparse furnishings, “It’s really cute Tom.”

“You don’t need to lie to me Hermione.” He snapped a little too forcefully while turning on a lamp.

“Oh no Tom, I mean it. You have three bookcases just in here,” she motioned to the one immediately behind her, “that’s like a dream of mine! Look at this,” she plopped herself into his oversized leather chair, “you’ve got your own little reading nook and everything.” She picked up the book he had left open on the wooden side table to her right and examined the cover.

On impulse Tom crossed the room, and after a moment’s hesitation, he gripped Hermione by the waist and lifted her just enough to place her on the arm of the leather wingback. She let out a surprised squeak, but otherwise let him manhandle her without protest.

“Um… I’m sorry I’ve lost your place Tom,” she held the book against her chest with both hands and gave him a contrite frown.

“That’s alright kitten. I’ve read it before.” Tom casually placed a hand on Hermione’s nylon covered knee, “Any man who tries to be good all the time is bound to come to ruin among the great number who are not good,” he recited.

“Machiavelli.”

“You’ve read it?”

“I did look at the cover,” she teased, “but yes I’ve also read it.” She wiggled on the chair’s arm and turned up her nose as she responded with her own recitation, “Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved.”

Tom could feel the blood rushing from his head southward. His lowered his voice and pressed his fingers into her knee, “Do you fear me kitten?”

Hermione blushed prettily beneath his appraisal, “Of course not, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

“You should,” like a viper he struck and yanked her onto his knees, “I’ll eat you up.” He pinned her arms at her sides and nipped at the black velvet ribbon she wore tied around her throat. Hermione giggled and squirmed against him and Tom’s cock twitched in his slacks. He released her so that he could slide his hand up her throat and around to the knot at the back of her neck. He pulled it loose and watched, rapt, as a fresh purple bruise was revealed. He haphazardly tossed the ribbon to the floor and leisurely stroked the column of her throat on either side with his thumbs. Hermione tipped her head back to give him better access and Tom seized the opportunity to, gently, sink his canines into the love bite. She shuddered. Fully hard now, he groaned against her skin and rocked his hips upward.

Tom removed his teeth and Hermione leaned forward to capture his lips. She was curled side-saddle in his lap and as he gripped her hip with one hand, he let the other slide up her thigh to toy with the clasp at the top of her stocking. Hermione whined and mewled against his lips with each peck, becoming more vocal now that they had privacy. She peppered his jaw and the corner of his mouth with kisses while occasionally sneaking a nip at his lower lip.

Hermione slipped her hands inside the shoulders of his jacket and tried to push it down. Tom attempted to pull away to remove it, but Hermione chased his lips. Laughing Tom turned his head and leaned back so that he could extricate himself from the fabric. As soon as his suit jacket was gone, Hermione went to work on the buttons of his vest. He slid his hands up past her stockings and gripped her rear, pulling her farther up his lap. Distracted from button-duty, she slid a hand downward and gripped him through the front of his pants. Tom let his head fall back with a groan and Hermione nibbled at his jaw while she alternated between stroking and grasping at his clothed member.

“Bed, bed,” Tom was barely capable of coherent speech as he clutched Hermione against him and stood to carry her to the next room. He deposited her gently on the edge of his modestly sized bed. For a moment he stood over her, just staring into her wide doe eyes, enhanced by the heavy winged liner she wore. Her whiskers had somehow survived the night.

“Undress yourself,” Tom said with all the authority he could muster. Another Machiavelli quote came to mind, _He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command._

Hermione hesitated for a moment before standing and slipping past him to gain more space. She presented him with her back and pulled her curtain of hair over her shoulder to expose her shoulder blades. “Could you get the zipper Tom?”

“Of course, kitten.” Tom slid the zipper of her bodice downward and stepped back to watch as she slid the sleeves of her dress down her arms. Once her arms were freed, she pushed the bodice down past her hips and let the dress fall to pool around her ankles in a pile of glitter and tulle. She stood then, with her back to him still, in an all-black ensemble consisting of a strapless bra, high-waisted panties, and her garter belt and stockings. This was better than the Bettie Page photos at work. Hermione was real and soft and smelled like rose petals. She was here voluntarily and she was letting him undress her.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at him, “Could you, um, get the bra too?” she asked shyly.

Mouth dry, Tom stepped forward and began to fiddle with the clasp. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the ridiculous design of women’s lingerie clasps that had him struggling, but after a moment it came apart. Tom placed a hand on one shoulder and slid it down her arm to find her gloved hand. He raised her small hand so that he could remove the glove and then repeated the steps with its mate. Hermione, still facing away from him, maybe avoiding eye-contact, took a deep breath and reached down find the hem of her panties. They were pulled over her garter belt, and it occurred to Tom that he hadn’t seen that before. Logically, it made sense though. If her panties were below the belt, they wouldn’t be able to be removed. She gripped the black cotton and bent forward slightly to pull them down her shapely bronze legs. Tom groaned at the sight of her round ass and wide hips being presented to him.

When she found the first clasp of her garter belt, Tom stopped her, “No kitten, leave it on.” She was like a pin-up come to life and he wanted to indulge in the fantasy, “Turn around.” Hermione obeyed and turned to meet his gaze for the first time since he had removed her bra, “Get on the bed,” he demanded. She sat on the edge again and awaited further instruction. Tom rolled his eyes internally, _now she listens to me._

He considered her. The fullness of her breasts, the softness of her stomach, the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, and the way she curled in on herself slightly, belying her apprehension.

“It’s your turn,” she spoke up.

“I suppose it is,” he smirked with false bravado. With much less finesse, Tom stripped himself of his vest, shirt, slacks, and finally his briefs. In all their previous sessions, Tom had received peeks at Hermione’s physique, but she hadn’t seen him like this since the beach. Since before they trusted one another. And judging by the startled look on her face, she had never seen a fully naked man at all. Eventually, curiosity won out over fear and Hermione leaned forward to gently grip the base of his erection. Experimentally, she twisted her loose fist upward and Tom feared he would unman himself then and there. “Stop,” he told her, “lay against the pillows.”

Her brows furrowed but she complied. Hermione turned to crawl to the head of the bed and leaned against his pillows and headboard, “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

Tom crawled forward after her, self-conscious of how ridiculous he must look, “Not at all kitten. I just don’t want this to end yet.” He observed her long stockinged legs and thought about how often he had imagined something similar. Gently Tom pulled her knees apart and settled in the cradle of her thighs. He rocked against her core and they both looked between their bodies to watch him slide against her slick folds. After a few more strokes Hermione was flushed and panting. Tom’s arms strained to hold him above her and he stopped watching their bodies, instead focusing on her sweet little mouth parted for him. He kissed her once, twice, and then moved down her body until he reached her breasts. Tom pressed them together, kneading for a moment before taking a dusty rose nipple into his mouth. He sucked lightly before biting down gently. Hermione sighed and softly ran her nails down his back as he pinched her neglected breast.

Tom pulled away and gave the underside of one breast a parting lick and then resumed his progress down her figure. He kissed the gentle hills of her stomach and finally settled his shoulders between her thighs. Her nylon stockings lightly scratched against his biceps.

“W-what are you doing Tom?” Hermione’s voice trembled.

“Shhh kitten,” Tom breathed against her curls, “do you trust me?”

“Yes…,” it was almost a question. “Yes,” she settled on, “yes I trust you.”

Taking that as consent, Tom dove in and licked up the full length of her labia. She was warm, dripping wet, and tasted of musk and maybe a little salt. Hermione jerked beneath him. He parted her outer folds to reveal her clit and tentatively pressed his tongue against it. Experimentally, he flicked his tongue a few times and grinned when he looked up and saw Hermione with an arm thrown over her eyes and her mouth open in silent sigh. Emboldened, Tom continued alternating licking and flicking, until eventually he slipped a finger inside her. When that didn’t get a strong enough reaction, he added a second. He slowly pumped his fingers in and out of her tight little cunt while Hermione whined and twisted beneath his ministrations.

Small hands clutched at his shoulders and attempted to pull him upward, “Please, please,” she begged, “please stop. Come here.”

Confused, Tom complied and settled between her hips again, “Are you alright?”

“Yes Tom,” she gently caressed his cheeks, “but I need you to fuck me.” He stared in astonishment, “Please, please Tom. I can’t take anymore. I need you inside me.”

“I- Of course I want to, but-“

“I have condoms,” she interrupted, “in my clutch. Go get them.”

She didn’t need to tell him twice.

Tom returned, tearing the wrapper as he walked. He climbed onto the bed and kneeled before Hermione as he rolled it down his aching erection. At some point in their activities, she had slid down the pillows and now lay fully on her back. Tom extended himself over her and braced both elbows on either side of her head. He held her gaze, “Are you sure kitten? Really sure?”

Hermione nodded frantically, “I’m sure Tom.”

Gripping his member, Tom positioned himself at her entrance and shifted forward. Hermione was wet enough for him to slip in the first couple inches without resistance, but he had to gently rock into her until he bottomed out. Hermione had remained carefully limp through the process and had not cried out as he had expected. Fully seated in her, Tom could feel her inner muscles gripping him tightly and he was unable to help the long moan that escaped him. “Are you okay kitten?”

Hermione ran her nails along the tense muscles of his back as she had done before, “Hmmm,” she hummed dreamily at him, “It really doesn’t hurt.”

Bolstered by her response, Tom began to move. He rocked forward and soon after, Hermione began to push back with her hips, attempting to match his rhythm. Tom was able to hold this gentle pace for maybe a minute or two before he began to rut into her more forcefully, unable to control himself. Hermione had given up on her gentle stroking and had begun to cling to his shoulders, inhaling sharply with each thrust. He could feel the muscles in his lower abdomen pulled taut and a pressure built at the base of his spine.

Hermione began to urge him on

_Oh_

_Oh Tom_

_Please_

_Tom_

And while he kept his thoughts to himself, Tom had his own mantra running through his mind on repeat.

_Fuck_

_Yes_

_Kitten_

_Mine_

Tom’s rhythm sputtered and he pressed deeply into Hermione one last time as he came with a groan. Panting, they stared at one another.

And then Hermione smiled incandescently with her goofy little whiskers and crooked bow, and Tom couldn’t help smiling back.

“Did you, uh, did you finish?” he asked, knowing he had been too caught up in his own sensations to notice. Bashfully, Hermione shook her head _no_. “I guess it’s your turn again then kitten,” Tom informed her with a sly grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't listen to anything I say about update schedules. I thought I'd finish this in a week and it took me nearly a month. I basically wrote the whole chapter tonight in a six hour long writing marathon. It is 2 am here. I have not proofread it.
> 
> Also, I keep meaning to mention this, but Hermione is not trying to be sexy per se. She is not intentionally dressing like a pinup. That's just what women wore under their clothes back then. I feel like that's important in both historical context and the context of their relatonship.


End file.
